I might be crazy, but I don’t hate this:
It’s kind of….funky fresh. It’s probably also automatic, supersonic, and hypnotic. The hypnotic aspects possibly being responsible for my not ripping out my hair and SCREAMING about it. Now, do I sort of wish I could see the pieces separated into two different outfits? Yes. But I wish for a lot of things. I wish for world peace. I wish for my own soft-serve machine. I wish Pacey Witter was a real person who lived next door to me and was secretly in love with my hot ass. I wish my ass was hotter. I wish I owned this $1750 pair of Louboutin boots I saw through the window of Barney’s last week. I wish I was a little bit taller. I wish I was a baller. But if wishes were horses, as they say, beggars would ride. (And nowadays, of course, if wishes were horses, and beggars were riding, we’d be seeing a lot of stories on the local news about a rash of homeless people suddenly appearing on horseback, which would, at the very least, make for some interesting Man on the Street interviews.) In other words: we can’t all get what we wish for and must make do with this.