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The Writing Wall

 Affronted by a (practically) nonexistent warning sign, the weather-beaten plastic dangling idly from a nearby telephone pole, clearly stated, Private Property . Even though our previous attempt at this location resulted in a prying patrol car… the graffiti mural, a derelict carcass of a once prominent amusement park, was obviously too wicked to pass blindly. Sprinting around with certain schoolgirl giddiness, the ridiculous amount of camerawhoring was starting to feel like some new Olympic sport. But before finally fleeing the scene, we noticed the black and red letters smeared across the far right side of the building that perhaps claimed an excuse to previous visitors. ' The Devil Made Me Do It' . Disturbing to small degrees, it did seem outwardly apropos to our deviant trespassing acquisition… our forbidden spray paint entertainment. (Vintage sequin butterfly shirt, Betsey Johnson tights, F21 skirt & jacket, Bakers fringe boots)
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Around the Museum

Adept to artistic recreation, I wrenched this blue button-down from the retirement section of my closet… evidently, I’ve been on some sort of 007 sewing safari. Sated with a neo-trashy romanticism, its charming DIY imperfection materialized this impromptu photo excursion, even though I should have been working. But from the sun-drenched corners of a museum shop, I rubbed out the shadows of a recent stress purgatory, as the city voice seemed a tangible reawakening. Shirt, DIY (Meadham Kirchhoff inspiration). Satin tap pants, Victoria’s Secret. Bangles, vintage. Heels, N.Y.L.A.
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Ascension and Snow

Masquerading like some sort of villain... The Lollipop Girl. Organizing a hoard of Louis Vuitton bags reminiscent of a passenger boarding the Titanic, I subsequently stiletto-stomped my way through the airport… my least favorite locale. The multitudes of people spatter together a freakish rendition of business, pleasure, and necessity. A communal jungle of paperbacks, multicolored Blackberrys, laptops, iPods, and diverse banter illuminate hastened boarding calls as a modicum of boredom weaves the metaphorical features of departure gates, all passengers all rows… terminal . Without defense to unwarranted luggage cruelty, enthusiasm flatlines. I do it for love... but ah, the joys of travel. From the stomach of flight, the world below is silent while conversation nebulizes and then bounces from either side of the oatmeal colored aircraft like a ping-pong ball caught in tilt. At 36,000 feet, anything’s possible… though slightly altitude-jaded, I escape into a book, catnap, amp the iPod, a...
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