I did another ad this weekend.  I told The Guar---ian what it felt like to become a millionaire fashion queen before I was a teenager.  I plugged my magazine and my trademark style (you know--cute but jarring, feminist but conservative, adult but babyish).  I felt great, right until the interviewer asked me whether I was a fake!  I guess people can't believe that a child is the intellectual equal of models and fashion designers.  I recited the usual spiel about obeying the man of the house, absorbing fairytales, and being yourself, and avoided the question.  But it got me worrying.  Am I fake?  

People say I'm some sort of fashion prodigy.  But is it really so amazing that I should advertise fashion to impressionable girls, as it is to me?  They say I'm political.  But I'm not trying to save the world.  Making people feel OK makes me feel OK.  Let the planet burn.  And what does it even mean to be a genius at fashion?  A work of genius is lasting and universal--one of fashion, transient and arbitrary.  There's no reason why red is in one year, blue another--or why the gay men who own the fashion industry once chose the flat-chested boyish look, and now choose my stereotypically girly style--no reason but to distract people and keep them spending.  That's the real con.  The whole fashion industry is fake.  I am merely a fashion victim.  

That, and my real name is Candy Scriblerus.




January 2013

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