Why do people want to look at those photos of pretentious-looking girls wearing important shoes with fur coats and enormous handbags? Who gives a shit! I’ve only looked at The Satorialist once and that was enough. Forget about his images; his text is nauseating!

I don’t care about him or his French girlfriend or any of those blogs that feature smug anorexics wrapped in leather or whatever is supposed to be fierce and covetable. No matter how often they’re praised as “effortlessly chic,” they look like they’ve spent half of their lives in front of a mirror.

I can’t even understand what I’m supposed to feel when I look at those pictures. Am I supposed to feel inspired, like maybe I can appropriate the Look for myself? Am I supposed to be envious? I just feel vaguely soiled from looking at them.   It’s like porn for the post-sexual consumer.   And to me, they all look the same, they’re are the same cliche, all lauded   for being original and “getting it right.” Getting it Right is my new linguistic complaint.

Fashion is still an obsession for me, obviously, with a certain amount of love-hate conflict. Here are some looks from Secret Squirrel, a brand you can find at the Australian fashion wonderland The Grand Social.   This is what I would buy if I had some money and some common sense:

It’s casual but elegant, tomboyish but okay for an old bag, much better than leather shorts or another pair of jeans.

Here’s another look from Secret Squirrel. I would feel perfectly comfortable in this for an evening out, not that I’m ever going anywhere.

You’d think I would know who I was by now, when I buy clothes. Instead, I keep buying buying shit I can’t walk in, can’t style properly, or can’t even figure out what I was thinking when I bought it.   I think Secret Squirrel could help me to Get it Right.