Diary of a Fashion Blagger, I mean, Fashion Blogger

Hello, must be nice for you to meet me nice to meet you.

Naomi from Coulda Shoulda Woulda who is friends with someone
 I once met in passing asked begged me to share with you what it's like to be a #fashionable,

 #super stylish,

 #tweeing twit-terer tooting my own horn,

#fashion blagger blogger.com 

Now that all the various fashion weeks are over, I finally have the time to make you jealous to tell you.

Ready?
Ok.
So, I get up in the morning.
Well...morning New York time.

 I remember when Linda Evangelista said she doesn't get out of bed for less than 10,000 dollars a day.


Money is so 80's.
Talking about it is as telling of your age 
as copying Farrah Fawcett's feather hair.

The new currency is intangible and on the internet.
I don't get up for less than 10,000 clicks a day.

Like I once overheard my stylist describe me - 
I am very much like a virus.  But I think he meant viral.

 I yell, "Gucci! Prada!"
And of course the stylist rolls in the rack of clothes and the puppies come to greet me.
I named them after brands because as you can see it just saves time.

 Everyone wants to marry Prince Harry but I would rather go out with Scott Schumann of the Sartorialist.

 Look what it's done for his girlfriend Garance.

 If you are a royal, you have to smile all the time and I don't want that responsibility.

 She only became extra skinny to compensate the scrunching of the cheeks that smile cause.

The real goddess is the other Kate.

 Ms Moss never smiles and can shop without any implications.
Who needs to be on the Daily Mail anyway?
No buying power there and being on the Daily Mail everyday does nothing for your career.

If it did then Jessica Alba would have been offered a new movie deal by now...

Look.
Smiling doesn't suit fashion.

 Look at Anna Wintour.

 Being friendly doesn't nothing for one's career - karmic laws of the rest of the universe don't apply to our own special world.

But don't get me wrong.
I am, like, totally spiritual.

 Why do you think I am always looking like I am peering into the fourth dimension?
It's because I am.

It's actually really easy to do.
It's that polite bored look at parties because no one is as exciting as you.

People always ask if a donut ever passes my lips.
It does... 

 Twice.
Once going down and once going up.

I must have discipline.
I have to exercise.
Every June before the season in Ibiza/St Tropez/Sardinia, I go to a clinic in Austria every year.
Although my mother stopped joining me because all that starvation and stale bread reminded her of the former Soviet Union.

People are so snide and ask if I slept my way to the top of the molehill.

I am in the fashion world darlings!

Do I look like a 18 year old former waiter from Mykonos?

Oh no, the only sex that got me to where I am is when my mother had sex with my dad.
She married him for true love before he became a millionaire. 

You either have a biologically rich daddy or adopt one to be in my league of blogging. 

 My father taught me a few lessons I bring to fashion.
All this less is more, more is less is baloney!
No wonder the world is in a recession.
As my father taught me, more is more.

 There is supply and you just demand, demand, demand.
That works with my coke dealer in any case.

He does worry about spoiling me though.
But I always sell my clothes on my blog after wearing them once.
I am just so thrifty.
Plus it just makes my father's fourth wife look bad.

But it's not easy you know.
I have a lot of stress.

I am a supermodel.
Okay, one without an agent,
nor a booked job,
with no salary.

But the demands are the same.
I am my own boss.
I am an entrepreneur.
My business is selling nightmares, 
I mean, warped Freudian mind farts, 
I mean, dreams.

I am a model, creator, buyer, seller, and breather extraordinaire.
Snap, how else do you think I can hold that pose?