Scrap-Person

When I was little, I had this really weird habit of wanting to be just one “type” of person. A perfectly encapsulated stereotype of a human, 100% of the time found in some movie I liked. And it usually never made sense. Some of the people I remember wanting to be are: a gladiator (guess what film that one was from?), a grease monkey, a glamorous lady, and Alison from Judy Blume’s Just as Long as We’re Together because she was always nice and everyone loved her.

And then I grew up, and nothing changed. Okay, a little changed–I stopped caring about making my personality like people from books and movies (because I’m AWESOME) and mostly wanted to look/dress/have hair like people from books and movies. So I’d go all bananas on one style for a few weeks, then move on to the next one. Bada-bing. But some notable characters stuck out, and so these are the people whose style I steal in some kind of twisted self-scrapbooking way:

Brigitte Bardot

Brigitte is my girl forever. She’s gorgeous, crazy, timeless, and her clothes are un-fucking-real. I love her giant hair and raccoon eyes, but it’s her outfits that go into my WildHearts scrapbook of life.

Candice Swanepoel

Scrapbook element: makeup. After all, if you’re going to have face-paint inspiration, who better than a Victoria’s Secret model?

Ballerinas

They’re the reason I love black tights. Ballet clothes are so pretty and simple and effortless and, sure, look way better on anorexic dancers than the average person, but who said I was average?

Bohemians

I forgot to add “gypsy” to the list of things I really wanted to be when I was little.

I’m bored now. You’re probably bored too! Or, if you’re an American, you’re probably too busy watching your dad blow off his fingers with a firework to read this post.

 

Beauty, Freedom, Truth, Love, & Weird Clothes

Secretly, I kind of consider myself a bohemian. Do I know what that even means? No. But according to Urban Dictionary (which is obviously reliable), it’s someone who is “above all [an] optimist” (and who “like[s] wearing a mixture of weird clothes”). Yeah, that sums me up.

On the real, though, I would never call myself a bohemian. Mostly because it sounds like a really pretentious excuse to smoke weed, and I don’t need any excuses, thankyouverymuch. But I saw Moulin Rouge, and listened to that whole spiel about the bohemian ideals of “beauty, freedom, truth, and love.” And I agree. Also, I enjoy absinthe, even though it tastes way more like licorice than my taste buds expected.

Seriously, though, what’s not to love about wearing feathers in your hair and lying in the sunshine and thinking happy things? What’s something better you could do with your time on earth? I have no idea what the meaning of life is. Probably, it’s like a giant dogfight and people in the sky are betting on us or something. So why spend your useless time being miserable? Instead, you should spend it in fringe-y scarves and moccasins, drinking strange green liquor with your friends and being stoked. It’s the bohemian way–take it from me.