Godammit, I’m Mad!

I have PTSD and the world is going to hell, but for the moment I’m choosing to focus on other matters. For example, here is a challenging dilemma:

Who is more annoying. Gwyneth or Chloe?

On the one hand, Gwyneth has that awful website and now she has a recording contract as a country-western singer.

On the other hand, Chloe has her stupid fashion line for Opening Ceremony and that hipster lifestyle.

Gwyneth has the rock-star husband and the unforgivable names of her children. But Chloe has no talent and she looks like she needs a good hot bath. Each of them is a grating irritant in the oyster of my psyche, neither producing a pearl.  I would say it’s closer to a blister. I hate them both.

Don’t get caught up on the word “hate,” if that bother you.  Just tell me who you find more annoying, and why.

Ready, set, go.

I have wasted several hours tonight by following links from blog to blog, and here’s the scoop:

There are a ton of blogs that seem dedicated to advancing a style I want to call Clueless Goth. It’s heavy on the black, with lots of chains, studs, torn shit, leather, and the enthusiasts are too young to know it’s all been done before. They will post a photo like the Tragic Fashion Boy above, evoking comments like “fucken sicc.”

Dude, this is so depressing. I don’t know why, it just is. I learned yet again that Chloe Sevigney can do no wrong. Erin Wasson is still popular. Kids who look like they’ve been molested all their lives are featured in pictorials proudly flaunting their tattoos and blabbing about their muses. Lou Doillon is a big deal, even though she looks like a horse.

I don’t want to single out any bloggers in this report, because I can’t work up a good head of hatred for any of them as individuals. They’re more like a social ill or a trend to take note of, from a distance.

After this immersion into the fashion-forward youth culture, I might have a better appreciation of pretentious grown ups.

See this fabulous beehive? This is what I’d like to take to the bank so that I might accept this gracious invitation from Opening Ceremony:

But no, the bank won’t send me to Paris. Fuckers. Why? Because they don’t want me to look at Chloe Sevigny’s latest shit, or even Erin “Homeless” Wasson’s! There is no justice in this world, as I had already suspected.

Next, that fucking Octomom is driving me insane. Is there no end to this?! Her lips are even bigger now, on the verge of exploding. Go here and watch her argue with her mother. The sound of her voice is maddening. Quick reader poll here: What’s worse, her face or her voice?

Third, the boyfriend jean has now spawned the ex-boyfriend jean. This is an incredible development that signals the coming apocalypse.

How do you tell the difference? Will there be an ex-husband style, too? God, I can’t stand the ripped jeans thing. We baby boomers have already been there, done that, or at least sneered at the people who did.

Finally, summing up tonight’s complaints are these crazy new pants that I think are pretty awesome (and not in a homeless way) but can no longer afford.

Do you love them or do you love them?! Imagine them with a beehive! Waaaah!

I could shop my closet forever without finding these Kirrily Johnston pants. They’re so epic, right? Well, there you have it. I was planning to complain about porn too but I’m already too mad to think clearly. If you want to read some idiots trying to decide if porn is art, go here.