Fashion PoPo

Picture an old wrinkly dwarf with a beard that drags across the floor collecting who knows what with a schnoz the size of your granny's panties. That was me that fine Tuesday morning. No, no, no, I do not mean I was Natasha the eighth dwarf with chesticles, I mean I was in a great mood that day. You know...dwarfs are all merry and singing "Hi-ho, hi-ho" even though they work in a filthy mine doomed to collapse one of these days causing Bashful to become Smashful and Grumpy to become Stumpy. Anyway, I was the one singing "Hi-ho" that day, because I had woken up in a pleasantly wonderful mood. I liked my hair, my make-up looked swell, and I was especially pleased with my outfit. Yes, nothing could go wrong today.

"Is it tacky day today?"

This was the first thing said to me that fine Tuesday morning.

"Hey! Love the costume!"

This was the second thing said to me that fine Tuesday morning.

"What are YOU supposed to be?"

This was the third thing said to me that fine. Tuesday. Morning.

"Hey, you're a Goth, right?"

"OKAY PEOPLE! YES, I AM AWARE THAT MY OUTFIT IS NOT SOME GENERIC POLO AND JEANS, BUT IS WEARING ALL BLACK WITH NEON PINK LEG WARMERS REALLY THAT STRANGE? HAVE YOU REALLY NOT SEEN ANYTHING MORE PECULIAR THAN BRIGHT SOCKS IN YOUR PUNY LITTLE LIVES? WELL, HAVE YOU? HUH? HUH?"

"Why didn't anyone tell me it was Dress Like The Devil Day?"

Ahhh...those were the days. I will always miss the days we teeny-boppers could wear whatever we wanted, before the new dress code ever even existed. Before we all looked like clones of a middle-aged mom out for an afternoon of tennis. Before we didn't get sent to detention for forgetting to stuff our shirts down the front of our pants.

"Hey, what you guys in for?"

"Dealin' crack durin' lunch."

"Pimpin' prostitutes in P.E."

"Wearin' the wrong shade of khaki."

"Standard school attire" leads to conforming, which leads to communism, which leads to war, which leads to death, which leads to the end of the world. Why doesn't anyone see that? I'm talking about the END OF THE WORLD here, people. But that's not nearly as sad as the fact that I don't get asked if I worship Satan anymore. The guy who used to wear the leather trench coat no longer gets mistaken for a serial killer. And the girl with the bunny ears and cotton tail? No...people still think she's a slut.