Evils of Modern Work Culture
rated & explained
whether freelancing or working on your own project, these are the evils of modern work culture creeping out from every corner of our digital screens
Read MoreGone are the days of a mysterious red carpet allure, blame the social media craze or our immune system. Awareness is hitting its pike with the total knowledge of boob tape, ‘tummy control body shapers’, ‘baking’ and contouring, armpit pads and more. Yet, fascination is still there. Why ? Because at last, we get to know not only the damsels walking the walk, but their fairy Godmothers indeed.
Laura Harrier’s latest looks both at the Oscar’s (blue) and the SAG awards (pink) are a head turner and a neck breaker. Both styled by Danielle Nachmani, whom has also been responsible for the magical red carpet transition of Julia Garner . That bright pink lip and flawless glow? Nina Park. Brows on fleek and blue eyeshadow ? Hung Vanngo. Hair magic was stirred by Jennifer Yepez . As for the best part, Laura Harrier teamed up with Red Carpet Green Dress , a sustainable fashion campaign that draws attention to environment causes, alternative and eco friendly supply chains, by challenging the designers to think outside the box. The bespoke blue gown was created in Louis Vuitton’s atelier “with an ethical and eco-responsible approach established with long-time verified suppliers. The gown is made of TARONI SPA blue crepe silk certified by the Global Organic Textile Standards (GOTS), which is the worldwide leading textile processing standard for organic fibres, including ecological and social criteria” (source @redcarpetgreendress ). Looking forward to witness what Harrier’s team will pull next (lavender please !).
In comparison to her 2018 SAG’s appearance that was a r̶e̶p̶e̶t̶i̶t̶i̶v̶e̶ Gucci floral gown or her questionable choices with pink, Brie Larson was a striking mermaid turned warrior goddess in her Celine attire at the Oscars. Styled by Samantha McMillen, whom we also to thank for this Alexa Chung perfect Londoner’s look (during a press tour for Captain Marvel). Make up whipped with the help of no other but Nina Park (see Laura Harrier). The mermaid wave whisked by Bruce Scarlett. All in all, this damsel in no distress has gathered all the magic fairies, to look JUUUUST RIGHT. (Pierpaolo Piccioli being one of them).
If you are not girl crushing Gemma Chan into oblivion, why on Earth did you even sign up to Instagram in the first place? Her appearances are escalating with the some witchery of Rebecca Corbin-Murray , with an eye for extraordinary looks regardless the catwalk trends. As for make up, Monika Blunder is responsible for the signature (read perfect) cat-eye flick. The hair ? Clariss Anya Rubenstein. Hands on Girl Power when this one is getting ready .
Any ladies you keeping an eye on because fashion 😍?
img credit elle.com
If you have a perfume that you deem ‘yours’ I envy you for your perpetual decision making. I change mine every three to four months, seeking ‘uncommon’ (like mostly every other) in a world of consumerism.
Regardless of convincing myself of my special commitment to the likes of Aqua Di Portofino and Gelsomini Di Capri, basing my judgment on the name that my English-speaking pals will have difficulties spelling and anything that remotely smells of summer, there was one scent, that made its way into my closet and literally deprived of any nasal response from my roommate.
Pure Seduction.
At the age of sixteen, for endless months I went through anything Victoria’s Secret put the eponymous label on: body sprays and lotions and perfumes and body sprays once again. Was it the name that promised the allure of femme fatale when one is discovering herself and making it up as she goes? Was it the deep cherry red, mysteriously swinging in the light weight plastic bottle? Was it the scent, that left my roommate with zero recognition of whether I smell like smoke, tic tacs or a child prostitute?
Or was it the fake notion of leaving a trail like an angel once you walked by? You wanted to be Heidi, because English is your second language too. You bought into Miranda, because her soft spoken word and tales of growing up on a farm in Australia made you oblivious to her perfection. Doutzen and Rosie were your Brigittes, and you could not possibly shrink from modern looking legends. Selita and Jasmine were a breath of fresh air to you, against an all barbie looking line up (except for your favourites of course). As if Victoria whispered herself: here, sit back, judge and defend your favourites.
Last night Adriana Lima took her last bow as a Victoria’s Secret Angel and has folded her wings to the cries of couch judges that she has won over with her killer abs and hard work that spanned two decades. There she went, at age 37, no longer valuable. As much as the brand tried to channel array of womanhood by ticking the diversity box with Winnie Harlow, the show reeked of passé. With the backdrop of Rihanna’s Savage x Fenty show, Victoria’s Secret luring in young women with Bellas, Gigis and Kendalls seems like an expensive attempt that entertains cheap. Plus size models still out of sight.
You grow, you learn. No longer the smell of Pure Seduction empowers, but stenches the air with a memory of bad choices and obnoxious cry for attention. While you have cultivated girl power and dived deep into feminism, Victoria’s Secret stayed in a time lapse a decade ago from now.
Clearly I am going through a weighty Handmaid’s Tale withdrawal. Desperately poring over ‘similar’ reads (The Power is one of them, and no it is not close not even one bit) and counting down the days until May ( the release date making it this year’s winter time ever so depressing).
Meanwhile frantically scrolling through all the fashion shows and presentations this fashion week. This is what I saw:
Img credit Fashion Network
Img credit Vogue Australia
Img credit Fashion Network
whether freelancing or working on your own project, these are the evils of modern work culture creeping out from every corner of our digital screens
Shuzo Azuchi Gulliver
In between the three apps that you are using with your anxious, indesisive thumb, Instagram plays the role of a Dementor dressed as a magic unicorn. It lovingly sucks the living shit out of you, and when you think you had just enough, you do the ‘unwind’ bedtime scroll.
Your healthy relationship continues into perpetual Instagram story ‘add’ dependency; three to four profiles you despise behind the closed doors but still ok with looking at frequently; perhaps a profile of a famous cat, whom surprisingly has the most ‘authentic’ following.
The Mona Lisas
The mysterious bitches with a distinctive Lana Del Rey vibe. To your major disappointment, these rare birds can be seen posting a beautiful, naturally snapped shot at odd times, surpassing the 18.30 Thursday rule. They also fuck around with the established cycles of the commoners: inflatable flamingos for Christmas and office flat lays in August. Is it a lip pout or is she smiling? Go figure.
The Sellers
Anyone with a small, merch venture falls under this category: artists trying to make a living off postcards while art galleries are politely rejecting their erotic doodles of genitals; musicians desperately scattering a dollar or two for their patreon page; bloggers urging you to ‘read’ their latest post; global jet setters, in between their privileged, yet sincere jet lag complaints; a spiritual guidance teacher whose yogi mats are laid with crystals, feathered crowns and affirmation decks (in collaboration with the artist of course, see above). A dewy cocktail of self-published books, pins with oaths to feminism and great photography skills. You know who you are.
The Blessed
The enviable legacy of rockstars, 90s super models, artists, actors and other (insert rich) bohemia’s offspring who has worked really hard to be where they are today, withstanding judgment and hypocrisy, simply leading a torturous life of first class travel, red carpet appearances and round-the-clock arrangements for product placement. The signature move: zoom in on the eye with a ‘I am so tired of this bs’ connotation.
@bittylovers
The Micro Influencer
Few passive/aggressive replies to e-mails, an over priced tag for an Instagram post, attitude showers and rare appearances at low budget events. These specimen will either sign a contract with a communication agency and suddenly become a repost image for every Tumblr blog you follow, or will find their calling in creative fields of DJ-ing, bikini-modeling or fashion styling, overweighing their competition with the increased number of f̶o̶l̶l̶o̶w̶e̶r̶s̶ bots.
Which one are you ?
Due to the nature of my practice between art and writing that is strongly bonded to femme empowerment - my visual intake whether on Instagram, Tumblr or subscribed newsletters is a fierce hub of pinkness and diversity. Yet, why is it so, that I am on the edge of vomiting whenever I see another pad covered in red glitter resembling menstruation?
Guilty of romanticising periods myself (illustrated tampons and sparkles included), to my defence I am making an effort to move away from childish attempts of putting monthly bleeds, pubic hair and attitude on pedestal. Although there is nothing wrong with any of the things mentioned above, there is a thin line between celebration of womanhood and pure vandalisation of privacy (think Natalia Vodianova’s selfie with the pad or demonstration of used dildos while on your period). Spit outrage at me, but your choice for hairy armpits is not going to fix a salary gap or female genital mutilation.
My personal issue is, that I am among many other young women, stuck in between harsh male-dominated reality and online social outrage for girl power. Many of my girlfriends, although modern representation of femininity and independence, do not consider themselves feminists. On the contrary, all of the accounts I happen to follow - will post an illustration of clitoris without a second thought (and amen to that). With that said, many seem to struggle to find the golden middle, which is very simple. Let the men be a part of the conversation too.
Reserved feminism is not about a false pretence that women are equal to men, or being quiet when justice needs to be served. It is about a constant favour to conversation instead of attitude, and knowing that sometimes power lays in lipstick and a flower dress rather than cellulite and a slogan T-shirt. Burn me if you will.
p.s. On that note, join our emerging female collective in Milan. We are quietly changing the world one step at a time.
What a waste of talent, scattered all over Instagram captions and cheap blogs with pixelated imagery. I am of course referring to writers.
On my latest mission impossible, that is to find a writing gig(s) that would emotionally (and financially) sustain me while I am painting my way through the self-hate and doubts, I have encountered plenty of opportunities. Not to say that I could tackle many. All the writing ‘listings’ somehow made me wonder whether the recruiting people are looking for employees on the wrong planet or they are lucidly fucked in the head.
Starting off with a genuine request of a “1st class degree equivalent from a leading university” to “basic CAD skills”, “in house CMS” and to top it off with, most are ticked with “voluntary submission”. As far as I am concerned the latest can only be applied to a sexual intercourse. Not to mention the blunt statements of main responsibilities which most of the time include management of the social media channels, brainstorming and keeping in touch with bloggers and influencers, product description, and only then you may spend “10% of the time writing engaging content”.
What really fired me off, is the notion that a writer no longer needs to be devoted to writing per se, but photoshop, image creation/research, HTML coding, graphic design, SEO, experience with wordpress and the list goes on (all of the above are not necessary skills to possess but simply a fat competitive plus). Top it off with many citing “English as a mother tongue” (notice that countries like UK and USA do not place such atrocities on the front page of a job announcement).
I am afraid the bridge between outstanding reporting and witless blogging no longer exists. So here is to an expressionless face with a dog filter and an insightful caption recycled from a Pinterest board. I might pick up just that if it pays.
Farfetch
The Uniform Pages
Business of Fashion
Motion Global
Prestige Artists
Beorgeous
The Fashion Enterprise
ITheStylist
The Met Gala themed “Heavenly Bodies: Fashion and the Catholic Imagination” apparently has sent out the wrong memo, not the genuine 'Sunday Best' but 'hey do that circus thing but on acid'. Of course this is the only yearly red carpet event which encourages clashes of bad taste, hype and fashion spectacle, yet many designers and stylists seem to brew a secret hate towards their clients. That, or the clients (that is the Gods we really all worship) in the midst of glueing hair extensions and nail extravaganza (natural is still a thing though), selfie-ing their make-up through and through, have failed to look in the actual mirror.
First things first. What is up with all the halos? Lana Del Rey and Beyonce did it best - back at the Grammy's: Lana rocked hers like a true angel, while Queen Bee just did not leave any room to compete after her Goddess-like performance. Cardi B gave it a hard try, in a jewel and pearl encrusted Moschino, but let's not scowl the pregnant woman. Not that she cares. Janelle Monae and Solange Knowles looked to the point and poised (latest strutting Iris Van Herpen and a bottle of wine in her netted bag). The rest were just a fart-like echoes of what Coachella left: scattered egos in need of a crown at all costs.
Let's not name names, but ladies, some of you just cannot walk the walk in a gown. Aknowledge it, accept it, swipe for pants instead. Natalia Vodianova shined high class on the red carpet in her Balmain pant suit. Amal Clooney, as usual, flawless (wearing Richard Quinn).
The break of Instagram: Katy Perry vs. Rihanna. Miss Perry mixing up the event with a Victoria Secret Fashion Show, the only place where one can deem feathered carcasses 'appropriate'. Rihanna - well Rihanna is just Rihanna (John Galiiano got a shot out so there is always hope).
Lily Collin's made up tears seemed like a childish attempt at a halloween costume referencing Virgin Mary (note: she was actually attempting to channel dark arts and gothic) in juxtaposition to Tracee Ellis Ross' sophisticated nod to priests wearing rose on the 4th Sunday of Lent.
As for relevance Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen never miss. The Gucci gang was a great marketing campaign, and that is only because Jared Leto naturally rocks a Jesus look since the Oscars circa 2014 and Lana Del Rey looked like she just stepped out out of one of her latest music videos (her natural habitat).
Among all the farce Kim Kardashian West's Versace attire appeared surprisingly sober and appropriate.
Whose look are you digging?
p.s. Jonah Hill
Do raise your hand if you have caught yourself on several occasions searching for a female cashier at the check out while purchasing sanitary products. Raise both, if during a blood bath a public restroom has failed to provide a safety net in the face of magic machine. Everybody knows healthy women bleed, yet the society seem to hush around the subject, still. If men happen to endure the alike inconvenience surely all the facilities would be filled with pain killers on demand and tampax.
Media goes back and forth, raising the subject and quickly moving onto the next big thing. As of recently, the infamous Russian model, philanthropist and a business mogul Natalia Vodianova has dared to post a selfie with a pad, firing a rage in the comment section consequently failing to make a movement. Models which Vodianova persuaded to to do the same, politely waited out. A permanent women rights activist Emily Ratajkowski was too occupied sharing sponsored posts with DKNY, while Doutzen Kroes was busy taking polaroids in the bathroom. Who can blame them? A tampon in the social feed is equivalent to a red smudge on a white dress during a red carpet, and an additional shady backlash. Although both do deserve some credit for openly talking about periods with Vodianova in her exclusive interviews for the Flo Period Tracker App.
Period shaming can be simply blamed on sexual education received at school (or lack thereof) and the misconceptions accumulated over time. As far as Ancient Romans were concerned - menstruating women were witches, Medieval Europeans were petrified to consummate with a bleeding woman, while 19th century Brits thought women would ruin food while on their period. You do not have to look into history that far - openly dealing with menstruation only a couple of decades ago was unheard of.
One has to understand the concept behind such discretion: periods are not sexy. As much as they have been projected by many yogi-slash-soul searching gurus as a ray of sun shine beaming through the Godess-like womb - it is no glitter. Bloody business at times involving clots, smells and surprising colours. Try to pain-crouch without staining the bathroom carpet simultaneously wiggling a circus trick with a sanitary product of your choice. A Goddess, indeed.
Here is the thing - even a mouthy feminist does not want to get up with a smear all over her white fancy pants. Yet, if you do, laughing it off can help. Talking about it can too. Not in a dreadful ‘Oh God I was on my period’, but ‘Hey, anything men can do I can do bleeding’ sort of way.
Raise your hand, if you do.
Diversity is becoming as much of a buzz word as that of GRLPWR or another feminist rant; hopefully neither are going to dissolve like a last years trend of the fishnet tight, vulgarly peeking out of teenage-ripped jeans (Worn it, regret it.).
Think British Vogue's September cover celebrating models from past, present and future, unfortunately, with an all white cast; casually ticking the exotic box with Nora Attal. Fast forward to Edward Enninful's appointment, featuring Adwoa Aboah on his first cover (one could say a safe choice since she is a prominent in the fashion industry and a very much celebrated activist). May issue, on the other hand, has made quiet a stir: nine models photographed for the cover, among which Halima Aden, Somalia American model whom famously has kept her hijab since the beginning of her modelling career (starting off with Miss Minnesota USA pageant); curvy figured Paloma Elsesser, modern beauty Selena Forrest and many other girls representing a handful of racial diversity and skin colour. Whether a trending trick, or a social shift, which is with luck here to stay - the rest of the magazines favouring the Kaias, the Gigis and the Bellas, will surely take a while to follow.
Not to mention an incident, which has appeared not so long ago but everyone seemed very easily to forget about and move on - that is the N word surfacing a Russian kitchen. Haute couture Russian designer Ulyana Sergeenko writing the obscenity on her invitation, and infamous street style star and respected young business entrepreneur Miroslava Duma showing it off to the world via a snap in her Instagram story. As the claimed inside joke from Sergeenko to Duma has made its round, the online publications put a semi-effort into covering the story. Tiptoeing around the subject, stating the facts and leaving the screenshots for the public to engage in, the comments blazing with the raging fury. Of course throwing a tome of To Kill A Mockingbird at the Russian ladies will sadly be of no help. Yet, none of the publications took their chances to address the racial issue with a proper discussion.
Thankfully diversity was put forward when the trend-setting mouthy Goddess, Rihanna, launched 40 (!) foundation shades with her sought-after line Fenty Beauty. Estee Lauder and Color Pop jumped the opportunity with campaigns varying in skin colour.
The inclusion seems to be the safest swing in the playground of content marketing. Chromat and Gypsy Sport are yet to be topped up by others (hint: you are too late and you cannot). Sending someone like Ericka Hart down the runway is always a win. The question is: are brands, magazines and make up moguls are being genuine ? Remember when Rihanna was the first black woman as the face of Dior for a split second?
Is fashion celebrating authenticity (exuse moi for the wildly overused word) or throwing its claws into another marketing stint? You tell me.
Everyone wants to go to the Ice Cream Parlour - it bestows an undeniable status of cultured traveler if you do. You must go in winter, to boast about the inside freezer and the inadequate logistics.
Due to its immense, inarguable presence, most of the spectators will make sure they have an established opinion about it. Arguments can be easily dismissed with an effortless question: ‘... but have you ever been?’. If received with a positive answer, you, my darling, are in for a treat. The discussions are usually heated, unless you are a firm believer that the Ice Cream Parlour is a land of dictatorship, corruption, racism, sexism and any other ‘isms’ with negative connotation. Try and prove otherwise, that it is a place - slash- wonder of balance between modern culture and old-fashioned beliefs, and you will be politely dismissed. Not to say that it is. And it is not. You see, balance.
The door to the Parlour is only half way open, which means, you can easily get in, but the inhabitants have to put a substantial effort in getting out. This of course is again arguable - everyone is convinced that the door has been a slutty gate for the past 26 years.
Upon your arrival a voluptuous lady will not greet nor make eye contact, her soda jerk paper hat covered in grease - an evidence of never ending shift; a “no smiles” warning sign above her head. Black tea with milk in a red polka dot cup placed strategically besides the Tzar’s framed portrait with a smirk. He might get a taste of it if he pleases.
Wooden shelves full of Christmas decorations placed neatly: tiny cut outs of snow flakes, orange squirrels, brown bears and fake candy mock ups sinking peacefully in filthy cotton. A reminder to stay silent, and live your life peacefully without crossing the roads of those who might cotton you to death. Just kidding.
The Doll shelf is at permanent display. It exhibits what The Ice Cream Parlour considers ‘beautiful’, even though many will make a case of denial. You can take one, if you wish yourself for a pet, but it is expensive to keep. A vicious cycle of plumped lips, cheeks and chins; dyed eyebrows and glued eye lashes; hair must be taken out and put back in. You must dress the creature, take it out (implication: ‘out’ as in OUT of the PARLOUR) and make sure it has enough toys to play with. It will not provide with much entertainment per se, but will give you a notion of status and sexual satisfaction. If you are loaded, you can have more than one. They do not mind.
The Tzar has been in lawful reign for the past 18 years. The inhabitants do posses a strange feeling of devotion if not love towards him (which he prefers not to return). Many simplify the complication of their feelings in one phrase: "If not Him than Who?". No, really. Out of 143,964,709 inhabitants there must be not a soul, qualified enough. Balance.
The flavours can be dissected in two simple groups: the ones that obey the law and the ones that do not. The later have a richer blend. There are also the lucky ones, which survive outside the Parlour. Those are bitter, cynical and pretend they have nothing to do with their roots. Which flavour are you?
The End.
Dear digital team at an over priced, overrated fashion brand,
I am writing to you in regards of the writer-related job listing that I have found in my fat, one thousand three hundred and two letter inbox. The truth to be told, I am writing this desperate cover letter in the comfort of my own couch. You might think this is because :
a. I am a freelancer
b. I am pretending to be a freelancer as I am jobless.
I am concurrently eating a chicken burrito, with an extra guacamole, ordered via a millennial food delivery app, to which I have connected my parents credit card, that was given to me in case of emergencies. Sex And The City is streamed on TV and Carrie Bradshaw, whom I am blaming for my continuous failure as a writer who cannot afford Manolos, is speaking Italian. I am currently residing in Milan with a Latvian resident card and a Russian citizenship, which also means I will be a gigantic pain in the ass to file documents for. Let me make this easier for you: drag my e-mail to the bin, pass the job offer to someone with a simpler resident story to tell.
Shall you actually continue on this painful task of reading, let me brag about a fancy fashion school I was privileged and rich enough to attend. I regret my parents spending the money on such luxury still. But hey, if you would like to see my BA certificate, unlike my student peers, I have actually did not plagiarise on my thesis (true story).
My CV attached below, which I have spent hours perfecting to look more creative than needed, although I am not a graphic designer nor do I aspire to be one, nor should you expect me to be one, is full of ‘content writer’ listings. Signifying that for the last few years I have lost my journalist integrity towards digital wordsmith, whom deliberately misspells and hashtags every third word, diffusing any writing skill left in me with words like ‘squad’ and ‘good vibes’.
Shall you decide to grant me an interview do not expect me to show up wearing any pieces from your brand (simply cannot afford). Reference letters upon request (not going to happen).
Best,
The Stalker Outside Your Fashion Show
© Masha Mitrofanova 2017
Vagina, Naomi Wolf
Take this one for a walk. Notice how many men whisper, giggle with embarrassment, shy away or have a look of bewilderment as if their girlfriends do not have one. Or maybe it is just that their mothers pushed them out the other way.
Start in the middle. "The Vagina Began as Sacred", chapter 7. Make a visit to an archaeological museum. Look for signs. Start believing in prehistoric state of matriarchy.
Bad Feminist, Roxane Gay
Buy three copies. Give two away. Fold the corners of pages with excerpts worthy of discussion with men. Share the best ones on Twitter. Naively believe that this deed will shift the society for the better.
Read it again. Do something that will shift the society for the better.
Love Your Lady Landscape, Lisa Lister
Befriend Lisa Lister on Instagram. Wonder why you have bought the book if everything is available online. Well, almost everything.
Salute the candid chronicles of her cycle. Make a note on periods for yourself.
Not That Kind Of Girl, Lena Dunham
Read it in one sitting. Receive it as a sign slash magic butt kick from Lena herself. Realize that failing at adulthood and then gradually succeeding is a natural process. Conquer the world on your own terms.
Now, that is a title which might grab your attention, while you are wondering around the popular-corner-book-shelf, with the other three books you are about to buy (a selection on best American Short Stories, the most talked about novel and a self help book, tightly clenched to your chest so nobody sees the heading). You will judge this one by its cover and contemplate whether you have enough hands for the forth companion. Maybe you will even get it.
Or Fifth Avenue, 5 A.M. by Sam Wasson will be given to you by a dear friend. You will prolong and procrastinate reading it a couple of years. Although, it is about the actual filming of your very-most-favourite movie (and every body else's), there is always going to be another volume on your bedside table. Since childhood, you tend to believe that if you do not pick something up right away it is usually a drag once you do. Meaning, that if you glance at the book and your eye does not itch to stay up and read until your alarm goes off, it is not worth staying up for at all.
So, back to the bookstore. If you were looking for a beach read, and somehow one of your hands happened to be free, this one will do.
A young kid waving his tender 'Ciao' from a yellow tram, and you waving back.
A Russian woman saying 'bless you child', smell of incense and faraway home in your lungs at an orthodox church.
Different pastry a muslim lady has given you to try, at the bakery downstairs, because you only go there at your lowest. She has two lovely sons.
Blisters. You have new shoes.
Enjoying your coffee. Not smoking for 31 days.
Buying plastic star dust at the stationery shop, run by two elderly men, whom probably bet occasionally on your occupation.
Bits and pieces of it lay around here and there, and if you look with curiosity, maybe you will be awaken enough to see it.
Let me just Insta story this.
Do you also say it out loud to justify yourself? Or are you one of those kids that have no shame in taking selfies in public spaces? (hats off to those bloggers that do, besides missing out on life, you have to admit, they do get some lovely content done).
I like to chronicle myself, my little objects (books, crystals and cats are in my top five) but I am also very rough on my decision on what to post on Instagram. Although Instagram story became a relief to an over-sharing-self-obsessed generation (which I am in no denial a part of), I wanted a place where I would not be embarrassed about long captions, brave enough to share my unfinished work and maybe post a selfie or two with really bad lighting (and why the fuck not). So I have started a new project on Instagram, named it @InMySheets_ and I am planning on posting all the quirky stuff and feel good about it. Join me?
Here it comes again. I have tried so many times to put a blog together: from fashion outsider's diary most likely to a child like description on things about my daily routine (trying to look cool and all, with the images from my recent travels of course).
To make sure this will not happen again (never say never), I dubbed this page 'Journal'. Maybe if you give it a sophisticated nick-name it will save you from writing crap.
So in case anybody missed my writing (hello Valentine), I am not dead. And I will give it another try every Thursday. And hope to God my boyfriend will never stumble upon this.
Amen.
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whether freelancing or working on your own project, these are the evils of modern work culture creeping out from every corner of our digital screens