Parties are fantastic. They're the best excuse to get dressed. Getting dressed everyday can be a chore, but a party? It's fun. What am I going to wear? Accesories?
You glide into the bar, cocktail in hand, head kicks back at a witty comment your friend makes about that girl at 12 o-clock wearing the beaded bandanna. Perhaps you quip it's very Mischa Barton, I don't know, but what I do know is you turn to your left and there before you is someone wearing the same top as you.
Shit, shit, shit. Kill me now. Actually, lets draw this one out. Douse me in petrol and burn me at the stake. Only fire could rid me of this fash-travesty.
I was clutching onto my jacket at the time of the incident and foolishly pulled it up to my chest trying to disguise this fashion faux pas. The jig was up, my doppelganger's friends gave me fashion daggers as clearly, I was the offender. In the greater scheme of life it's not a big fuckifng deal but at the time it was. I was wearing a black Fred Perry t-shirt with the emblem printed on the front in grey. The other guy wasn't wearing the exact same t-shirt but they were pretty fuckin close.

Pretty fuckin close y'all

It really is a faux pas. The problem is, it's out of your hands. Nothing can make it better. You can't lighten up the situation with a joke. I mean, how funny is this:
Q:Two women walk into a bar. They're both wearing Balmain military jackets. That's it. The joke ends there.
Depressing. Oh things could be worse you say? I'm being ridiculous? Overreacting? Fuck you. It's probably not such a big deal when you're at the Mcdonalds drive thru and you notice the woman in the car behind you is wearing the same jewelled Vogue sunglasses. Whatever you Centrelink Mum.

Centrelink mum


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