No Substitute For Sanctimony.

Things are different in the PNW and I suppose the biggest difference is myself.  Something about the air and the people up up North that really changes someone.

Of course there is the adulation, the compliments, quite endless really, every time I walk out of my tree house and attempt even the slightest whisper of marketing.  Rapturous comments about this cardigan or these gloves or that hat and this they really don't know what to call it because they have never seen one before and I did not come to buy bread to give courses on town clothes.

One musn't blame them really.  So many of them exist in an almost zombie-like grip of Patagonia and Arc-teryx orthodoxy that when you offer them even the slightest glimpse of glamour, and for many of them that can unfortunately mean matching accessories, it really puts them on the back foot.

And myself, always bettering myself more than the next person and always in the most conspicuous of ways with my many many seminar hours of training in the ways of cultural humility, sectional observational dialectalism, queer legal theory, critical legal theory, critical race theory, normativity recognition and rejection, etc. often finding myself having to check myself before I, yes I am about to say it, wreck myself.

Sometimes, which is to say mostly always, I will pass one of the semi-professional locomotives in an athleisure accident in fabric on the pavement and I will find my inner-monolgue become so nasty and sharp it almost cuts like ice so much so that when circumstances require me to actally vocalize something to an appropriately dressed individual what invariably comes out is something that sounds more like attempted death by declaration.  

If you ever thought a simple No Thank You couldn't injure someone I suggest you rethink your assumptions.  Something you would already always be doing if you pursued my endless regime o self-betterment and sanctimony conditioning.

Oh, and have you seen the Galliano 2024 artisanal collection for Margeila?  If you don't find yourself writhing on the ground in some form of Saltburn inspired sand-fucking spasm of ecstasy then I suspect you haven't just yet.  Give yourself some time and a nice quiet room.