why i am dressing in the tackiest, cheesiest 80s and 90s digs i can possibly find

Flash back to last May. It had been overcast for months (years, decades--eons actually because it was Portland) and literally  raining for a month solid. I'm rummaging through da Binz, trying not to think about the detritus-des-binz collecting on my eyeballs, when I find it. Beneath a crusty green comforter languishes an XXL dress in the most obnoxious shade of salmon pink you can imagine. It's covered in fun little 80s pineapples. The cotton sags. I reach for it, hands trembling, and pull it from the depths of the "soft goods" section.

Cue 2001 A Space Odyssey sountrack. 

For a while now I've had this idea, this dream-like vision in my head. It re-surfaced this January, posessing me like some kind of kitschy New Wave demon. This vision drove me madly towards a blur of bright colors and geometric tropical patterns.At the time I couldn't even pinpoint what it was I so desperately yearned for. I had only the pineapple dress, and a vague image of my neighbor's folding beach chair from the early 90s, to satisfy my color-lust. Through an excruciating process of google image searches, obsessive doodling, and rabid thrifting, I slowly defined and realized my spiritual purpose. 

I knew that I must collect the tackiest, cheesiest, 80s and 90s digs I could possibly find and come summer wear exclusively those colorful clothes. If I didn't, I knew profoundly that my soul would perish.

You want to know what happens when a person has endured the death-like dreariness of one too many eight-month-long Northwest winters? Mania, that's what. Keep yourself posted on stylevacation!. 

Anyway, I spent a lot of time and money on this stupid spiritual journey so someone had better notice me devote my aesthetic dignity to it.

Lates