Sick City Windows

Capturing New York's sick windows & city happenings

Tag: Jessica Simpson

Without You…

“I needed to become something besides the star everybody had built me up to be.” Leann Rimes

Leann. Leann. Leann. How do I… begin? Without you my fifth grade would’ve been totally bleak. Nothing but post-Biggie Diddy depression and constant waiting for Mariah’s hero to arrive. I mean you were major. Of course, that was before you disappeared. Were replaced by Britney, Jessica, Mandy and Christina. And out of nowhere resurfaced 100 lbs, with Eddie Cibrian hanging off of your vagine arm. I mean listen babe, I don’t care that you found love in another’s husband, he’s totally hot, but I do care to know where the fuck you were for the better part of the 2000′s? Salmon fishing in the Yemen? Beekeeping? Shopping? Plotting? I mean, we all know you weren’t learning how to breathe

And like I’m right there with ya– anxiety sucks. Big time. But when it comes to Hollywood/ real life sympathy, it doesn’t always apply to home-wreckers, you. So perhaps you should’ve done without the press release, publicist statement, phone call to a crazy Twitter follower and paranoia that your cheating husband is cheating with someone who isn’t you. He is. With me. jk. for now. My advice– get all the rest, ginko and extra breath you can. Once you emerge, you’re gonna need it. And your voice. Because doll face, won’t anybody give a fuck about you otherwise. Trust, they already don’t.

Images courtesy of google.

I’m All Cuffed Up.

Cuffs are something that really grind my gears– and not in the Fifty Shades of Gray kind of way. I’m glad your minds went there though because post Fifty life has become for most of middle america, middle aged housewives and mid-level erotica readers all about the whips, chains and handcuffs. You know, slap a little booty up with my belt– scream help. From time to time some of rap’s greatest invade my soul. A little Luda here, a whole lot of Trina there…

But no, the cuffs that grind my gears are the ones on Katie Holmes and J.Crewsters everywhere. Don’t get me wrong I love them on myself but that’s because I know what the fuck I’m doing. Remember, I’ve been styling for almost a decade, these other “fashion bloggers,” well, ask them the last time they dressed someone who 1. wasn’t themselves and 2. didn’t have the physique of a 12 year old Oriental boy– they probably never have.

But, being that I am such a giver. Here is a little lesson on cuffing.

1. Perfection is in the imperfection. Probably the biggest faux is the equally matched and measured crispy cuff. Ew. I mean really the only people who still match these days are the ones wearing Blurberry shorts, a Blurberry trimmed tee, Blurberry/Kangol hat and Blurberry Air Force Ones. And even though you should strive for a perfectly symmetrical face this doesn’t lend itself to a jeans’ ankle base. And ya know what, in all seriousness you shouldn’t be cuffing shit anyway, in case you haven’t heard, rolling is in. And when you roll your pants, they should be as organic as the granola you eat, as messy as the dreds on your dealer’s head and uneven as Tara Reid’s body post op. Bottom line: Don’t rock a relaxed denim with an uptight roll. Not chic. Sorry Rach, right pant, wrong roll.

2. Length counts. This is super important. Just because the look says “I dont care,” it doesn’t give you carte blanche to not actually fucking care. Clothes should ALWAYS be working for you, so no matter how high or low you roll– make sure you still look your best. Don’t Jessica Simpson your leg when you could Gisele it if you get my point. And if you have cankles, well you may want to just scrap the look all together. Just sayin. A good rule of thumb is that the higher a shoe comes to your ankle, the higher the roll (e.g. ballet flats= low roll, ankle. cage shoe/booties= high roll, calf). Notice how Kim is a double offender- equal rolls with unflattering placement on the leg.

3. Wash matters. Here, I’ll say it again, wash matters. So unless you’re going for 50s proletariat stick with light denim, but steer clear of acid wash all together. Oh and what type of jean you’re rolling matters too. True denim works best- no jeggings, and think straight leg to skinny– no cigarette and certainly no boot cut/wide leg or else you’ll wind up looking like this cloven footed mess right here.

So, how should your rolls look? Well, like any of these… Oh and a little disclaimer on my picks– I only endorse the roll, not the person. Jennifer Aniston- EW. But what did you expect? Did you really think VBecks would be caught dead in a style inspired by the working class? Fuck no.



Dedicated to the Obvi. Obviously.

I’d like to share something with you all that is very dear to my heart, assuming I still have one of course. A post dedicated to stating the obvious. Definition: something easily seen, recognized or understood; open to view or knowledge; evident. What it is, is a disgusting part of every day life so morally depraved that my reactions to the verbal redundancy have in the past caused entire displays of Oliver Peoples’ to shatter, baby hearts to stop beating, Birkins to burst and left friendships in Pompeiian ruins; the real cause of Nipplegate (sorry Janet, that was totally my fault, nothing personal) and may or may not have caused Columbine, Katrina and Oklahoma City… Wicked destruction I know, sorry about that. It’s just that I really hate, I mean obesity in crop top hate, when I hear any of the following:

It could be worse. I know who Jessica Simpson is. I’ve seen Fashion Star. Trust me, I know how bad it could be but dont you dare for a covetous second try to diminish my plight as a single, white, formerly Jewish, now Aetheist female.

Is this a shirt or a dress? Neither asshole, it’s a fucking tunic. Hence why you can’t figure out whether the garment before you is a shirt or a dress.

Muscle weighs more than fat. True. But heroine chic will always weigh less.

There’s no such thing as normal. If there was no such thing as normal there would be no word for it. Nor would there be words for simple minded, redundant, deficient, obtuse, fuck faces– you get where I’m going.

I should’ve never listened to that hair stylist. This is a no brainer. Never under any circumstance trust anyone willing and eager to take shears to your magnificent mane. Remember, hair stylists (like Gingers) are soul’less drones who want nothing more than to cut and dye you back to the 90′s– something about a return of boy bands and mushroom cuts.

Two permits do not equal a license. But– one out of state license will permit you a discount at Bloomies.

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 215 other followers