S.Yarhi dont give a shit 2 Don’t Give A Shit: On Dressing for Yourself

Don’t Give A Shit: On Dressing for Yourself

The title is pretty self explanatory, essay writing 101 (actually, full disclosure I was an English Major who hated writing essays, detested to be specific). Let’s delve further into the subject though. Yes, the images are of kids, young screwballs exploring “alternative” dressing. That wonderful world of self-discovery, rebellion, and boundary pushing. But kids nonetheless, not able to legally buy themselves a beer at their favourite band’s concert. Shot at NXNE YDS free outdoor concerts.

Now, to explain what made me post these pictures, how many months later. I’ve been sucked into an online k-hole reading Cat Marnell’s work. Her drug abuse, her exceptionally bright career, her drug abuse, and finally her drug abuse. No I’m not condoning drugs, dummy. She’s an exceptional writer, drugs or no, who speaks intelligently, poetically even, about her actual real life in which she abuses drugs religiously. What I want to take away from this is not the affected sense of fearlessness, because not only does she care, she seeks out the rise. That punchline that has some cheering and others throwing punches. I want to learn from her bewilderingly blindingly obtuse sense of rightness.

We apologize so much. By we, I mean people, Canadians, women. It’s never enough, or we overextend and then worry about not getting it all perfect. Along the way did we upset someone, maybe not intentionally by telling them where to go, but a slight that we need to apologize for? I know I have. Everyday is a litany of what did I do, how well did I do it, did someone affirm that I’ve done it right? Is it my age, I’m 27 (on the cusp of 28)? Or my character? Is my childhood, and years of being bullied rearing its ugly head? Or life as a freelancer in an economy that sucks hard? Or being a woman? Don’t know.

Furthermore, I’m starting to care less and less. I only know how to be me. Part my parent’s upbringing, part societal rules most adhere to, part my instinctual reactions. Being a blogger, and a woman at that, you end up being put into some ‘nice’ box. I’m not jealous of Marnell, or wish I could do as many drugs as she (they scare the shit out of me), or want that kind of fame. I don’t want an eating disorder, or to bleach my hair, or wear pounds of foundation. So, like most other women my age (broad strokes) I know exactly what I don’t want. I don’t want to just be nice.

But, what do I want?

I want to tell myself to shut the fuck up right now. So I’ll forge on. Bringing this full circle back to clothing: when I get dressed in the morning it’s mostly about wanting to look good. Do you feel me? For who, that depends. Does it matter, yes.

These photos show a style that if you grew up as a teenager in the nineties you’ll remember fondly— the raver look. The fuzzy shit, the soothers, the 60″ pant leg circumferences. It’s all rushing back through a haze of some crazy chemical, yeah? I wouldn’t know, I never went to a rave. I went to a high school where you would drink in parks with guys who weren’t worth the 40s of Old English on hand. Maybe this girl knew about raves, maybe she’s been to one of those PG13 raves I hear are still going on. The style is recycled, like much everything else. What resonates with me, what triggered me to find these photos today, is that mood. It’s not an “I don’t care.” You do, you got dressed in the morning. It is a call for a reaction though.

So maybe this whole post is for a reaction. Maybe I need a reaction today, this month, in my life. Maybe, I don’t want to say “Oh, I’m sorry,” again. Or, do you like it?

S.Yarhi dont give a shit Don’t Give A Shit: On Dressing for Yourself

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