Century

On Sunday, it was a fight to the bitter end to decide which show was my favorite. I narrowed it down to Alexander Wang, Boy by Band of Outsiders and Karen Walker before my weakness for polka dots and stripes won out. Yesterday I felt underwhelmed by the offerings. There were pieces here and there that caught my eye, but no full collections that inspired any strong emotions, positive or negative, on my part.

It's actually fitting that there was no favorite yesterday, as I can use this space for something else.

This is post number 100 on this blog. Through all of the things that have changed in the year plus that I've been writing here, I can firmly say that this place has been one of my saviors. I know that sounds melodramatic, and, believe me, I don't like melodrama unless it comes in the form of a big ruffled dress, but it's the truth. In a world where I have been constantly subject to the opinions and whims of others, trying to please but infinitely unable to, all that matters here is what I think. What I believe. It's my very own space. I won't go all Virginia Woolf on you here, but there is something comforting about it all. About being able to swear when I want to. About writing about what I like. Even if that's a sack dress with sailboats.

Some days I do feel as if I am yelling at the top of my lungs into the abyss of the internet, but I've come to terms with that. It doesn't matter if I have one or one million readers. Because in the end, that isn't what this place is about.

It's about me.

And sometimes it's okay to be that selfish.