This has been a long weekend so my memory is a bit blurry, and some probably crucial brain matter has been irreparably fried by the pattern disaster I feel compelled to relate, despite the fact that I never ever want to have to picture abovesaid pattern disaster in my mind's eye again EVER. EVER EVER EVER.
So: last Thursday there was a copious amount of leopard print. Layer one: a black shift dress which on the hanger was probably fine, but sort of flapped away from her body and was highly unflattering to the clavicular region, giving it a particularly emaciated sheen. Layer two was the coat: the cornea-burning, barrel-shaped, brushed pony-hair color-gradiated freak cocoon of a leopard-print coat.
Around the collar (which, I would be remiss not to note, was accidentally half-tucked in most of the day, inducing in me several silent pleasure cackles), framing the clavicular fear center, the spots screamed from a gold-ish background. Traveling downward, the aforementioned background morphed from gold-ish to bronze-ish to amber-ish to a color I can only identify as the color of my slowly atrophying brain cells (a.k.a sludge). You may be picturing that and thinking it's nice, but unfortunately in reality it's not nice: it's crazy. Moreover, it's textbook Haute Topic, by which I mean it has the medulla-shattering garishness of a preadolescent mall faux-punk emporium at monthly mortgage investment level$.
(The upside is that the coat DID distract from 1) the 75 pounds of face she had on, 2) the flesh-colored stockings that her gold anklet continually strains against, and 3) the leopard-print neckerchief. That's right: homie said leopard-print neckerchief, bitches. Because OBVIOUSLY, no leopard coat-based outfit is anywhere NEAR complete without a neckerchief in the same size print but ever so slightly off in color. Sometimes all a leopard coat needs is a little more leopard.)
