I don’t know if you know this.  But if I have the final word in fashion, the queen has the final word in deciding whether I live or die.

The funniest thing happened to me at the airport yesterday.  Me and my bad bitches were on our way back from our spring break trip to the FLA and we were in the Tampa airport in line for security.  Thank god I was wearing a crop top, shorts and a blazer.  Not only did I look phenomenal, but it was easy to step in the future metal detector and have it be obvious I wasn’t hiding WMD’s in the collective foot and a half of clothing I was wearing.  Now sometimes when you go on vacation you go shopping.  Globviously I did.  I bought badass Steve Madden heels in a royal blue suede that made it look like I just stepped off the set of ANTM.  Since I am an overpacking psycho, I had zero room in my carry on and my book bag for aforementioned badass heels.  So, I shoved my Rainbows in my book bag and strapped up in my pumps. 

Now.  Picture this: me, a 5’10” diva strutting down the TPA hallway with a half shaved head and legs for miles.  Pretty awesome right?  I know.  Anyhow, the point is some woman tapped me on the shoulder in line for TSA and I turned around and looked down at her.  I said “Hi” cheerfully and she looked up at me (she was like a full foot beneath my towering figure) and didn’t say anything for about 10 seconds.  I looked at her, beaming, and said “Can I help you?” Not in a sassy way but in a slightly confused way.  She then proceeded with this:

“Do you realize you are wearing shorts and high heels in the airport?”

Um.  Yes.

“Why would you do a thing like that?”

(Feciciously [as if I need to specify]) Well ma’am, you see I am what they call a diva.  Have you ever heard of Beyonce Knowles?

“That’s not you, be yourself.  I know you are yourself under all that.”

Double um.  No I’d rather be Beyonce than myself! (I added delighted)

“They have therapy for that, dear.  Believe me, I’ve been through it.”

AND OBVIOUSLY YOU NEED TO GO BACK THINKING YOU CAN JUDGE ME ALL UP IN THIS AIRPORT.

I didn’t really say that last part.  I was too shocked and violated to say anything after that.  

Lady, you don’t know where I come from, what I do, what I’ve been through and who I am.  Let me do me, playa.

Then several things occured to me as I walked away.  You can pick which dick response you would have liked me to say that most:

• Well, yes I am wearing shorts and heels that I designed.  I am on my way back to New York to debut my spring line in my first, headlining fashion show.
• I am an airplane model.  I have to run out to the tarmac in this and pose by a 737.  And can you believe they are only paying me 2.3 million dollars?!
• I’m sorry that you had to notice and not everyone is privy to this information but I am an escort.  The airport is the best place to make money!  I have to put myself through college somehow, don’t I? This degree in astrophysics isn’t going to earn itself! 20, 40, 60.

I don’t know if you know this.  But if I have the final word in fashion, the queen has the final word in deciding whether I live or die.

The funniest thing happened to me at the airport yesterday.  Me and my bad bitches were on our way back from our spring break trip to the FLA and we were in the Tampa airport in line for security.  Thank god I was wearing a crop top, shorts and a blazer.  Not only did I look phenomenal, but it was easy to step in the future metal detector and have it be obvious I wasn’t hiding WMD’s in the collective foot and a half of clothing I was wearing.  Now sometimes when you go on vacation you go shopping.  Globviously I did.  I bought badass Steve Madden heels in a royal blue suede that made it look like I just stepped off the set of ANTM.  Since I am an overpacking psycho, I had zero room in my carry on and my book bag for aforementioned badass heels.  So, I shoved my Rainbows in my book bag and strapped up in my pumps. 

Now.  Picture this: me, a 5’10” diva strutting down the TPA hallway with a half shaved head and legs for miles.  Pretty awesome right?  I know.  Anyhow, the point is some woman tapped me on the shoulder in line for TSA and I turned around and looked down at her.  I said “Hi” cheerfully and she looked up at me (she was like a full foot beneath my towering figure) and didn’t say anything for about 10 seconds.  I looked at her, beaming, and said “Can I help you?” Not in a sassy way but in a slightly confused way.  She then proceeded with this:

“Do you realize you are wearing shorts and high heels in the airport?”

Um.  Yes.

“Why would you do a thing like that?”

(Feciciously [as if I need to specify]) Well ma’am, you see I am what they call a diva.  Have you ever heard of Beyonce Knowles?

“That’s not you, be yourself.  I know you are yourself under all that.”

Double um.  No I’d rather be Beyonce than myself! (I added delighted)

“They have therapy for that, dear.  Believe me, I’ve been through it.”

AND OBVIOUSLY YOU NEED TO GO BACK THINKING YOU CAN JUDGE ME ALL UP IN THIS AIRPORT.

I didn’t really say that last part.  I was too shocked and violated to say anything after that.  

Lady, you don’t know where I come from, what I do, what I’ve been through and who I am.  Let me do me, playa.

Then several things occured to me as I walked away.  You can pick which dick response you would have liked me to say that most:

• Well, yes I am wearing shorts and heels that I designed.  I am on my way back to New York to debut my spring line in my first, headlining fashion show.
• I am an airplane model.  I have to run out to the tarmac in this and pose by a 737.  And can you believe they are only paying me 2.3 million dollars?!
• I’m sorry that you had to notice and not everyone is privy to this information but I am an escort.  The airport is the best place to make money!  I have to put myself through college somehow, don’t I? This degree in astrophysics isn’t going to earn itself! 20, 40, 60.

I don’t know if you know this.  But if I have the final word in fashion, the queen has the final word in deciding whether I live or die.

The funniest thing happened to me at the airport yesterday.  Me and my bad bitches were on our way back from our spring break trip to the FLA and we were in the Tampa airport in line for security.  Thank god I was wearing a crop top, shorts and a blazer.  Not only did I look phenomenal, but it was easy to step in the future metal detector and have it be obvious I wasn’t hiding WMD’s in the collective foot and a half of clothing I was wearing.  Now sometimes when you go on vacation you go shopping.  Globviously I did.  I bought badass Steve Madden heels in a royal blue suede that made it look like I just stepped off the set of ANTM.  Since I am an overpacking psycho, I had zero room in my carry on and my book bag for aforementioned badass heels.  So, I shoved my Rainbows in my book bag and strapped up in my pumps. 

Now.  Picture this: me, a 5’10” diva strutting down the TPA hallway with a half shaved head and legs for miles.  Pretty awesome right?  I know.  Anyhow, the point is some woman tapped me on the shoulder in line for TSA and I turned around and looked down at her.  I said “Hi” cheerfully and she looked up at me (she was like a full foot beneath my towering figure) and didn’t say anything for about 10 seconds.  I looked at her, beaming, and said “Can I help you?” Not in a sassy way but in a slightly confused way.  She then proceeded with this:

“Do you realize you are wearing shorts and high heels in the airport?”

Um.  Yes.

“Why would you do a thing like that?”

(Feciciously [as if I need to specify]) Well ma’am, you see I am what they call a diva.  Have you ever heard of Beyonce Knowles?

“That’s not you, be yourself.  I know you are yourself under all that.”

Double um.  No I’d rather be Beyonce than myself! (I added delighted)

“They have therapy for that, dear.  Believe me, I’ve been through it.”

AND OBVIOUSLY YOU NEED TO GO BACK THINKING YOU CAN JUDGE ME ALL UP IN THIS AIRPORT.

I didn’t really say that last part.  I was too shocked and violated to say anything after that.  

Lady, you don’t know where I come from, what I do, what I’ve been through and who I am.  Let me do me, playa.

Then several things occured to me as I walked away.  You can pick which dick response you would have liked me to say that most:

• Well, yes I am wearing shorts and heels that I designed.  I am on my way back to New York to debut my spring line in my first, headlining fashion show.
• I am an airplane model.  I have to run out to the tarmac in this and pose by a 737.  And can you believe they are only paying me 2.3 million dollars?!
• I’m sorry that you had to notice and not everyone is privy to this information but I am an escort.  The airport is the best place to make money!  I have to put myself through college somehow, don’t I? This degree in astrophysics isn’t going to earn itself! 20, 40, 60.

These little ones got it going on.

Been computer-less for far too long, internet. Armed with a brand new whip for the cyber world, I’m prepared to take you on a journey through the male wardrobe.  With my head-to-toe list of do’s and don’t’s, you can’t go wrong Friday night.  I can guarantee you will go home with a winning woman.

I promised myself when I started this blog to never criticize men’s apparel.  I have believed that the phrase “men’s fashion” was an oxymoron because men are assholes and can usually wear a teeshirt, well fitting pants and some nice kicks and look like a million bucks.  However; men fucked up.  They decided that they need me to write a fashion blog about them because they suck and look like shit.  I’m pulling my first collabo with my roommie, Andrea, who is super savvy about the fashion world and is just as big of a bitch as me.

1.  Shoes

You think that shoes don’t matter when it comes to women noticing you. And by noticing I mean evaluating your worth in the bedroom.  Bitch please.  It’s only the first thing we notice.  So, lose the Adidas slides with socks and gym sneaks and pick up a pair of one of the following: Sperry’s or Clarks’.  Or both.  Not at the same time.  Ass. 

2.  Pants

This is where is gets more complicated than just buying some shoes that fit your feet.  Jeans that FUCKING FIT YOU are obviously acceptable.  I will not get to know you (in the biblical sense) if you got this going on.  At the absolute most I should only be looking at an inch of your ironic boxer shorts.  If they aren’t ironic, what is the point of showing them?  Think about it.   Of course a nice pair of chinos or whatever are better.  Such pants show that you care about yourself and that you are rich enough to buy me dinner.  Even if it is at Chipotle.

3.  Tops

Truly, you have limitless options here…if you follow these strict rules.  Basically, I don’t want to see you in your lax pinnie unless you are on the field.  And even still, not really then either.  Get naked.  Here is a good list of “don’t’s” especially for going on dates or going outside of your house.

• Lax pinnies (reiteration needed) and tank tops in general
• Hawaiian shirts
• Ironic shirts about your “guns” or your dick.  If you have to talk about it, don’t.

So the things that you can wear include, teeshirts of mildly crude humor, v-necks (not too deep or else you are a tool), flannels, plaid or plain buttons ups, tasteful ties (if you have important, rich guy things to do).  And for the love of God, roll up your sleeves for sextra hotness.  Roll. Up. Your. Fucking. Sleeves.

4.  Facial hair and hair on ya heed

Now the most important part, your face.  Some people say the eyes are the window to the soul, while the facial hair is the window to your sexual prowess.  You need to do one of two things: be clean shaven or have a nice, fully grown in beard that you keep under control.  No in between either of these things.  No patchy, 8th grade bullshit.  No ironic moustaches.  No chin straps.  Do you really wanna be that guy?  Because that is what the ladies see.  If you are blessed with the genes to grow in a beard that covers your whole face, first off CONGRATS!  WOMEN WILL WANT TO HAVE SEX WITH YOU!  Secondly, make sure you trim it back so you don’t look like a hobo-viking.   Even though, it’d be kinda cool to see one of those.

As for your head hair, just cut it short.  There is no man who looks WORSE with shorter hair.  There is nothing that makes me feel more like I’m in middle school than being around a boy with surfer-bro-asshole-douche long hair.  Go to a barber.  Talk to some real men.  And get back to me.  Remember, when in doubt, chop it off.

So I hope that helped, dudes of the world.  If you follow these rules, the women will flock to you like stink on a monkey.  Take a lesson from these Sperry models and your sex level will be OVER 9,000!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

SUBMITTED TO fuckyeablackswan

Me and my friends KILLIN IT at Halloween Black Swan style.

Rule #19 - Designer rain boots - not as stupid as designer mud flaps…but serve the exact same purpose.

And are exactly as stupid as designer socks.

Here is the thing about labels: when you die and are worm food, it won’t matter to the worms whether you are buried in a Chanel pant suit or just heaved naked into a mass grave and dusted with lye.  Although, the lye will greatly stave off the worms, making the decay of your body faster and less…wormy.

Enough of that.  You don’t buy designer brooms to sweep the floor.  You don’t buy designer dish rags (okay some asshats do), you don’t buy designer toilet paper to mop up your shitty asshole that you love the smell of.  You wouldn’t buy designer fly paper or designer elephant shit shovels [if you worked at a zoo].  So what makes you think that buying something at outrageous prices (when that money could be put to better use like buying less shitty jeans or more pretty underwear) to stomp around in the mud in is a good idea?  Did you know that it isn’t a good idea AT ALL?

The best part, you don’t have to be Einstein to answer that question.  You only have to have a brain stem, eyes, and a functioning heart.  Which apparently some of you don’t have. DIE ZOMBIE.

The same goes for the following

• Designer socks
• Designer active wear (sweatsuits)
• Designer pony tail holders
• Designer panty hose
• Designer leggings
• Designer shit shovels
• Any other asinine item that you couldn’t tell the god damn difference between with an electron microscope aside from what is written all fucking over it.

Wow, I really thought I was going to write a lot shorter list. But then I realized people will buy ANYTHING just because it has someone’s logo on it.  Be creative, buy things without labels and make your own.

Here is the main point: expensive things often have labels.  Expensive things usually are better made and therefore last longer.  But here is the catch when it comes to rain boots.  You buy a pair of Coach rain boots for about $118.00 (plus shipping and handling).  They last you all through college and probably a few years after that.  However.  If you buy a pair of rain boots from Wal-Mart for $18.00, you are saving 100 bucks right on the spot and even if you have to replace them once a year for 5 years…you’ve still only spent $90 dollars.  I’ve had a pair of black boots from Wal-Mart that I bought 2 years ago and they still don’t have any leaks and they were TEN DOLLARS.  Recently I added a pair of Steve Madden rain boots to my vast shoe collection.

“BUT COLLEEN….YOU JUST SAID THAT YOU SHOULDN’T WEAR RAIN BOOTS WITH LABELS.  YOU ARE A TOTAL HYPOCRITE YOU SHOULD TOTALLY SPOT WRITING AND U SUCK. LAWL :P”

Well, David Vitter, to that I say, “GUESS FUCKING WHAT?”

I got them from Marshall’s for 40 ducks.  So get right the fuck off my back.

There I implemented one of the greatest fashion tricks: getting things for dirt cheap by not being a spoiled brat.  That is the key.  Stop being a brat,* asking your parents to buy you things at full price and use the money they save to buy kids shoes in Africa or clean water in India, selfish pricks.

Pics of my outfit coming tomorrow since I’m already in my pajamas.

EDIT

Crop top and skirt from Urban Outfitters with boots not shown black from Forever21.  Yay new hair and new apartment!

*For those of you who don’t know that the brat I referred to was Courtney Stodden, google her and make sure you sign start a petition to shoot her.  Not to kill, just to get the message across that she is what is wrong with America.

“UPDATE UPDATE UPDATE. ZOMGZ, COLLEEN. MY LIFE SUX W/O YOUR PAGE BEING UPDATED 365 DAYS A YEAR BECAUSE I CAN’T DRESS MYSELF AND I LOVE 2 LAFF.”

Well, to that I say, get off my nuts.

I was obsessed with this store 3 years ago.  A Facebook ad rekindled my everlasting love for this amazing store.  So instead of updating I’ll leave you with this while I go get drunk.

Do want.

Rule #18 - Fedora + your head = lonely night

Hello, loyal followers!  Just a quick tip today for ladies AND gents.  It couldn’t be more simple: don’t wear fedoras and you won’t not get laid.  For those idiots reading this, that means fedora = no poontang.  and no poontang = loserville.

For those of you “saving” yourselves for marriage (aka staying in on Saturday nights fapping to this or much more likely this) fedoras would be a great way to help you keep your v-card intact.  If you are afraid the attention of the opposite (or the same [no hate]) sex to lure you into a vacuous world of sin and seduction, then by god, wear this hat like an opal ring.  This fashion statement will surely prove to whoever may fancy you that you aren’t interested in having sexual relations.

puke

freal?

Keep in mind who traditionally wore fedoras: gangsters and detectives of the 1930s, Gene Kelly and Indiana Jones.  You must be thinking “But Colleen, those dudes got so much ass they could open a pants store.  I can be just like them!”  And to that I say, wrong again, idiots.  It’s obvious that fedoras were meant for BADASSES and not for girls in North Faces and dudes who put products in their hair other than pomade and dirt.  That includes shampoo, boys.

All in all, just don’t fucking wear fedoras.  You look like a total tool and you could be spending your money on a hat that isn’t stupid.  Stupid.

Just a dress from 5th Culture today that screams spring.  Maybe with a little brown cardigan when the wind blows and this could be the most adorable outfit ever.

(Notice I do not have a fedora)

UPDATE:  I found something out about fedoras.  You can look good in them if you are this.

Rule #17 - It’s Spring, not the AVN awards.  And, YES! There is a difference!

I don’t know how to explain this rule any better other than with 2 simple guidelines.  They are as follows:

• Your tits are out - wear more clothing
• Your ass is out - wear more clothing

I don’t understand how you people can walk around with everything showing and not have the slightest bit of insecurity in your mind.  If I looked like you, I wouldn’t be caught dead in booty shorts that show my cellulite or tank tops that reveal my tit stretch marks.  Oh but wait.  You are a confident, independent woman you say? You are comfortable with your body and don’t care what other people think?  Well, those people just threw up in their mouths so…you might want to consider 3 more pointers, Miss Independent:

• Start giving a shit about yourself so other people will too
• Hit the gym

It’s all about being healthy.  And I need you to work out for my mental health.  Besides, there are safety issues involved with wearing revealing clothing and being a confident woman. Recently, scientists have released this fact to the general public, developed after years of observing sluts who wear whore-clothes and walk around a college town:

Case and point.  It’s fucking science.

The good news is that if you already are blessed with a perfect body, not only are you a total bitch, but you can wear anything you want!  Just so long as it’s classy, not trashy, and shows off your years of bulimic purging stemming from some dude sophomore year that dumped you who found it appropriate to use the word “porky” only to realize years later he was referring to his favorite cartoon character.

So I know it’s been a while and I really will try to stop being a good student and friend who has shit to do and spend more time being a lazy ass and writing on the internet.  Shirt by Kirra from PacSun, shorts from some sorta consignment shop, and shoes not shown but seen here but brown: