The End of Fashion Week

Fucked up shit sometimes happens, and fucked up shit happens to me often. This fashion week was a weird one. Milk Studios tried to turn me into some odd celebrity, one that basically did what he wanted and didn’t give a fuck. Such is who I must appear as, and to a fair extent, they’re completely right on. That’s all well and good, minus one simple but unavoidable fact–I care too much. While everybody came up to me to tell me how great of a job I was doing, I was basically self-destructing inside, feeling some crazy pressure to keep people happy while not so secretly falling apart. It had little to do with actual fashion week as much as my own personal demons, and I can’t lie, it sucked hardcore. Finding yourself compulsively crying in a corner and calling your ex-girlfriend just to hear a voice of reason from someone who loves you is a fucked up thing, and one I wish I never had to experience. What can I say though, other than do what it takes to stay alive.

The end of the last night has been spent in exhausted merriment, with people dancing to James Brown, EDM bands I’ve never heard of and Michael Jackson. We all drank the rest of the beer and tried to talk about things other than how hard we’d worked, celebrating, escaping and ultimately enjoying each other’s company. Here’s the deal–I don’t know what I did in the past, present and future to deserve to be around these people, otherwise known as my friends, but whatever it was, I’m lucky to have accidentally done it. They all love me, and the fucked up part about that is how much I need that love. Where do I go next? Do I leave New York again, head to New Orleans, return home to Salt Lake, stay here, stay alive, don’t stay alive, continue in which direction? I’m not sure yet.

I know only one thing right now, looking at the world through this fuzzy lens. I need love, and I need to recognize it when I have it.

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