Kit works fashion week every year. You guys, all I care about is that he comes home with some damn haute shit for me. I don’t care what, by whom, or even if it’s something from the mens’ shows found backstage at the end of the day. I just want my haute shwag, dammit.
breaking from regularly scheduled programming
1: there’s no crying in baseball (thanks grandpa) and there’s certainly no fucking crying in fashion
*not saying i’ve never whined before but i’m done. life’s too fucking short to bitch and moan. and yes i know this may be construed as whining.