I’m drunk and as such, I have some fabulous advice for Whore Talk.

Any fashion hag can reblog runway pictures. What we want from you is interpretation. We want beautiful photographs, pictures of your actual outfits (we already know you’re light-skinned and fucking skinny, so you’ve got nothing to lose), and some of your fashion philosophies.

Most of us can’t afford to buy the shit you link us to anyway. So, drunk advice worth it’s weight in rum – go more abstract. Show us your aesthetic. And please, no more motherfucking fanny packs.

Love,
your fan and drunk savant

Fucking priceless. You’re totally the drunk friend who spoils the end of my joke by blurting out the punch line, but that’s okay. I forgive you. I know it’s because you think its really hilarious and you just want everybody to laugh.

Chill out, lover. I got this.

It’s a little thing called timing. It’s a little thing called foreplay. The crowd has to get warmed up. The instruments have to get tuned. The pussy has to get wet.

Don’t worry. It’s gonna be a long year. I’ll get to the philosophy of aesthetics. In the meantime, don’t forget that this isn’t about being able to afford the shit at the ass end of my links, and this certainly isn’t about me. Whore Talk is a style blog, not a shopping or a fashion blog. I’m providing a compass, not the map.

For instance, did I tell you to wear fanny packs? No, I did not.

I told you to watch out for them. I had the burnished brass balls to come out in my opening week and make the prediction that this summer, fanny packs weren’t gonna be just for tourists anymore.

Why? Because I know what I’m talking about, and as impossible as it seems, fanny packs are one of those unquestionably horrible yet culturally contagious things that are destined to crop up every once in a while like Snuggies or Rick Astley.

You’re about to be rick-rolled by the hipster fashion elite, and I’m leaking that shit to you like Julian Assange at market week.

When I say you’ll see, I mean it.