Just think, halfway through this month I realized that I didn't do a proper insight in September. Oops. Take this instead (the link is in the "this" in case that isn't clear).

However, here we are, at the end of October, otherwise known as Halloween! When you're reading this I'll be out and about in a ruffled skirt I've been wearing for this occasion since I was ten and a little witch-hat-tiara, following the invitation of a couple as - gasp - part of a couple myself.
I think I need a paper bag.
See, I really like to go out dancing, but I've never actually went with, well, a guy. I don't know how to dance around a guy. Or rather, I do, but that would be weird since we're already kind of involved so there wouldn't be much of a point in sparking his interest in me via my dancing - Gosh, that was probably the most unfeminist thing I've ever said. Scratch that. I'll just dance by myself, for myself only. I am my own happy place and all that.

Now that's settled, I'd like to formerly announce that it will be my birthday in 36 days (as of now, the 27th) and that I'll be 20 years old (oh, dear Lord) and that I have absolutely no clue how to savor this grand event adequately. Cocktails? Might be too noisy and dark to chat with more than the two people next to me. Dinner? Same thing because long tables. And a full mouth. A get-together at home? Not dressy enough. If people ignore my outfit guidelines, that is. It's a tough decision, lovelies.

Realization of the month: I was so much funnier in February to June WhatsApp conversations than I feel like I am in my current ones. My previous moments of inspired remarks actually made me laugh in hindsight like the self-invested person I am, whereas nowadays, I like to start dialogues by sending an unsolicited picture of a box of gum. That reminds me that I haven't gotten an answer to that yet. I guess I can't blame anyone here, though - I'd have a hard time to figure out a) how to respond at all and b) what's wrong with someone who doesn't have anything more profound to say than "Look, it's Mentos' bubblegum". Takes some time.

Anyhow, victory has struck in the hoodie harness! I'm free to show up to the shoot in something pretty as long as it's all-black. I'm overflown with joy. But more stupid decisions are threatening to be made regarding other projects: I don't yellingly interrupt the girl briefing our make-up artist for one second and she's already asking her to smear gel all over the model's face and buy red mascara out of nowhere. I swear that's how these things end up happening in editorials. The only sane person in the room probably sneezed and closed their eyes for a blink and suddenly, the stylists cut off all the pants in a fit of creativity and now we all have to deal with finding the right shoes to go with "culottes".

Fashion formula: Freezing before heating. Doesn't work as a rhyme but you get where I'm coming from; I need to remember every morning that I generally feel better in sheer nylons and heeled shiny boots than I do in thermo tights that catch all the cat hair and flat muddy shoes. Even though my body tries to convince me otherwise when I'm shivering in front of my closet at 6am, urging me to reach for the sweater I've been wearing around the house for five days, because it feels so much like my blanket. I'll regret that thought as soon as I run into the first person I know who hasn't seen me since high school and will now remember me forever as the short girl who suffered from a heatstroke on a train, rattling out "I have so much nicer clothes!" before collapsing in a huddle of stone colored wool and worn-out black jeans.
No, thanks. I'll take silk blouses and slit-up skirts over that anytime. The cold never bothered me aaaaanyway....

Stay warm by being hot stuff, lovelies.

Love,

Rosy Smith

....Frankly, I think I lost my battle against the hoodies. For now. They're not in stock at the moment and I'm crossing every finger I have that the hideousness gets dropped.

Also, I'm cold, I just missed my next connection, I haven't eaten all day (I tried to have some strawberry yoghurt but they put bits of fruit in it  - how could they?) and there are way too many people on this platform. I'm also elegantly carrying an open bag with my sleep shirt stuffed in for everyone to see, clenching my laptop so I don't get a hunchback from my other bag I've swung over my shoulder. I just hope I fit through the train door if it ever shows up.

There's a mom in here, standing with a baby strapped onto her body that is dressed in an adorable striped suit with a hood (the only time they're cute) with ears. The baby's not making a whimp, either, so I allow myself to consider it sweet. However, the mom has a toddler with her as well, with blonde ringlets and more hair volume than I currently have. The girl wants to sit down, so it crouches onto the single stair between compartments. "Don't put your hands on there or people will step on you", the mom says. And she says it many, many times - I'm afraid for my fingers by this point. The train stops, people come in, walking up the stairs, scooting past the little girl, but one unlucky man with Beats on his head ever so slightly puts down his foot inches too far on the left and brushes the girl's tiny fingernails - I see everything in slow motion, thinking "Nooooooo for God's sake" - and needless to say, disaster strikes. The girl says "Ow.". And starts bawling. Cue to the mom to begin going "Oh, no, I told you not to put your hands on there" again, and again, and again, and the girl changes it up by alternating between "Ow" and "Mommy" and I think I'm having a nervous breakdown. I have so much respect for mothers who mildly endure their children not ever shutting up.

Finally! I'm breathing the fresh Connectictut air, I can see the car that's supposed to pick me up, I get into it without a word, my bags a mess in the legroom, he turns the key - nothing. Just a weird, stuttering sound with slight similaritiy to what an engine should sound like. "We have a problem", he says. I burst into a fit of (okay, hysteric) giggles. "No, we really do", he says. "I know", I chuckle, "Sorry". I can't help it, it's such a classic "Can this day get any worse?" and the day being like "Oh yeah, I actually can" situation that it's starting to get funny (excruciatingly so, but still funny). It's hard to explain though, so I understand why he's not laughing with me. I mean, it's his car that appears to be breaking down. And I'm not exactly helpful crisis company, as you can imagine. Neither do I have a clue on what to do when a car doesn't start (Except calling my Dad) nor do I have calming things to say or constructive comments to make ("We could walk away and never return"). Oh well. He doesn't seem to mind that much / is too sweet to say "Damn, I really wish my friend who likes motor sports was here with me instead". Anyways, help is coming (He called his Dad, so technically, my approach has been pretty sensible after all) and all I can concentrate on is the pizza I'm gonna stuff my face with as soon as we get home so I'll leave it at that.

Hope you had a sparkly weekend that didn't involve anything on wheels.

Love,

Rosy Smith

Now I know that in this day and age, not everyone feels the need for an introduction like this. You yourself might be a defendant of the easy going, laissez-faire style of texting culture which implies that "it's not a big deal, you text whenever you want and answer whenever you see it. What rules?"

In that case, bless your innocent heart.

Obviously I don't know what your exact arrangment with your significant other is on that part of your relationship - it might not even be relevant. You might exchange romantic hand-written loveletters sprizzed with perfume, for all I know. However, for everyone who simply does not have a clue what their partner expects, this is how you definitely don't disappoint:

Emoticons: Do use them. It just looks more lively and lets me know you like me enough to make the effort to choose a smiley face that enhances your message for me and that's reassuring and I like to be reassured. But if you use them, do it continously. Nothing makes me more uncomfortable than a single emoticon-free message in a sea of blushy cheeks and winks. Even if it's a simple "Okay" it'll sound like "Okay! God, you're annoying/I'm not exactly okay with this but I don't want to deal with you headcase" to me, because only a "Okay :))" will give me the fuzzy feeling I need when conversing with you.

Still, you shouldn't solely and exessively use emoticons or I'll get the feeling you're either too lazy to actually phrase an answer or you don't have anything to say to me.

Timing: To be on the safe side, reply when you see it. Except when you're actually busy (driving, dying, in a million dollar conference count as "busy", for example) or need to check something in order to have an adequate answer (movie tickets, hotels, your mom's birthday). Consequently, be aware of the fact that I'm likely to re-reply again so you need to check your phone from time to time (daily would be a good minimum- so I know you're not dead/have not stopped liking me within the last 24 hours, whatever seems more likely).

Emotional Level: I get it, not everyone likes to express their undying adoration for somebody through 144 characters (need to google how many characters it really is but you get me). But a "Can't wait to see you" already makes so many of us happy and takes our mind off the fact that there were no empty seats on the train - it's not that hard. No one asks you to propose via text. No one wants you to do that, actually.

Golden Rule: Two or more days of not texting are considered rude since it's in some people's genes (mine) to start getting absolutely irrational deamings about the relationship and the meaning of life and listen to "Forever and Always" by Taylor Swift while solemny staring out of the train window and therefore your fault, not theirs. Don't be that guy.

If everyone did this the world would be a much less hysterical place.

Love,

Rosy Smith

....Let me start off by saying that all those things I told you to worry about might not necessarily have been a problem when I went away last weekend - but hey, how could I have known?

Well, lovelies, I had a pretty good time. So good that I was sincerely sad when we had to leave. Not that I expected not to be sad (I don't think I've ever been anywhere I was glad to leave from, so either my standards are really low or my vacations really good), but again, am I a future teller? As much as I didn't know about that, I didn't know that the city we've been to is an island (it feels so much cooler to go to an island, more exotic, than - not to go to an island, I guess), or that we'd live in a street where all houses were made out of bricks and full of small boutiques, one of them being in our building (could there be anything more suiting for me), or that there would be a big farmer's market in the central square every day (small town people have so much celebration stamina it's amazing), or that we'd go out to eat in this fancy historical restaurant with chairs in the powder room and then walk home in the freezing cold and write stupid things on sidewalks with chalk (don't even ask, I feel juveline already). However, those things turned out to be some of the best parts - there's a reason I like to be surprised.

A surprise of the bad kind, though, was the fact that I had to sprint through a museum they had mischievously constructed like a labyrinth so you may never find your way to the restroom twice and later run past the lovely powder room chairs repeatedly during the meal, irritating the staff and probably my company, although both parties were too polite to bring it up. Just marvelous. You might think there's no stigma around the topic of UTIs, but I have personally created one just for myself so I feel as bad as I would were I to have chlamydia WHICH I DON'T. Do I sound overreacting? I MIGHT AS WELL BE.

Let's change the topic to make me feel better about myself. Right now I'm unpacking my suitcase (only a week after I packed it, good score for me) and it takes SO much longer than randomly throwing in stuff, it's already annoying me. And I only took out two pieces.

Anyways, I proudly present to you Hoodies From Hell, the newest installment in our daily fashion school dramedy soap. Let's not be too dramatizing here (seriously, who am I trying to kid). However, I need to explain my general problem with hoodies to you. I bought the first black hoodie of my life when my English Lit class went on a field trip to Scotland and we all traveled in uniform. Our printed-on motto was "You can't repeat the past, old sport", which I actually found pretty witty ('cause Gatsby), and my friends and I sewed little Edinburgh themed patches on them. Still, as much as I - well, loved would be a strong expression, but let's say I'm fond of that sweater, and I've never worn it again. The second hoodie I bought was to match my whole grad class and it has our graduation motto (which was so bad I'm not telling you) as well as every single name of every single person I ever went to school with on it and that, my friends, is not something you want. Not at all. The best part about it was that on the day we were supposed to stand on our school's rooftop together and tearfully (and for the mostpart, hungover) wave our goodbyes, I wasn't even there. In fact, I was in the city applying to fashion college instead of wearing a stupid black sweater along with a ton of people I don't like who were doing the same. Looking at it from that angle, I might have even made the right decision that day! Oh well. Worth a try.
See, apart from the obvious - the fact that a black hoodie is in no way conform to my idea of a good look (or any look at all) and I do not care to spend money on clothing that I already know I'll never, ever in my life wear again, especially not if the word "hell" is printed on it, ruining it forever just like my former classmates' names -, those things are warm. Way too warm to be worn on the inside. I actually get a bit claustrophobic in them, somewhat menopausal. Why would I want to test that phase of my life I already dread right now, voluntarily?

The answer is, I wouldn't want that. So, when some of my current school peers suggested that we all buy a black hoodie and print our magazine's title "hell", on it in a gothic font and wear it for the editorial shoot, I flinched. I exchanged glances with another girl who didn't look quite ready to run out to the Dollar Store and get one, too. We said "Let's discuss it with the whole group", hoping that the absent ones are totally against that plan and help us outvote it. "It might be too expensive for some", we said, perfectly aware that there might be really, really cheap black hoodies out there. We're grabbing straws here, lovelies. Uniting forces. "But we're also wearing them at the magazine launch", said one of the hoodie supporters. "We are?", I gasped. WE ARE?
I guess I won't be making an effort to bond these days, either. Cause I'm definitely not wearing something I get hot, eg frizzy haired in, to a magazine launch. That's the final drawstring.

Love,

Rosy Smith

In relationships - define relaionship however you like at this point - there are lots of things not to worry about. See, the whole point of a relationship is that you won't need to worry about anything but the shaving status of your legs. However, there are so many rules in this world that don't work out the way they're supposed to that I simply can't help but remind you of the crucial matters that come with your first weekend trip away together.

Bathrooms. I'm that far gone with my habit of pretending that human needs do not exist and therefore needn't ever be mentioned that I'll just say the following: Use the foyer bathroom for everything except for showers and makeup applications. It's just more stressfree. You might not always be able to send your company to the balcony, because they might not want to go outside when it's 30 degrees and freezing. I know. Incosiderate of them, isn't it.

Your inexplainable problems with things most people don't have problems with. I for one experience such pure ickiness whenever I have to sleep in sheets that aren't mine. I always keep a special pillow with me that my head doesn't stray from all night long, just so it doesn't touch a piece of strange fabric. I catch colds from the AC 'cause I don't pull the covers up over my shoulders so they don't come near my face. And that's when I'm in those perfectly anonymous hotel sheets. When I'm in an apartment and the linnens are patterned, or crincly, or both - I'd rather not think about how uncomfortable those nights will be. I know they're all clean, I still find it revolting. Now I've told my company about that - he still got us an apartment and I'm praying for white linnens or I already see myself freezing without any cover at all, clutching that pillow I've had forever.

The check question lasts three days long. I rarely get out my purse fast enough to credibly assure him that I do want to pay for myself, but that doesn't have anything to do with me not really wanting it - I'm just not always listening to the waiter/waitress so I don't catch what's going on fast enough to yell "I'll take my share!" before he mutters softly (like a real gentleman who doesn't talk about money) "It's okay". Also, he always pays for both of us or just himself, but I never take it all on me 'cause I'm a bad person. That might be okay for a dinner or a movie, but I definitely won't be ripping him off for every breakfast, lunch, dinner, coffee, cocktail and museum. I need to work out a plan, like, letting him get dinner because that's romantic and share lunch and breakfast because no one needs that and take the drinks on me because "Thank you for dinner". Gosh, I know why no one likes to talk about that kind of thing: Not because it's obscene, but because it gives you a headache.

The food routine in general. Are we gonna go out for everything? Cause I would like that. There's something about imagining us sitting around a breakfast table full of food that makes me sick that is seriously disturbing to me. Homely scenes only appeal to me at nighttime. You know, sitting in front of the fireplace with a bottle of wine, watching a movie with a bottle of wine, the likes. Does he even eat all of the meals I need to have in order to survive/be satisfied? I know he's one of those admirable people who can wait for lunch until 3 pm when nothing comes up before that - I'm not. Except for when I'm really happy (strange but true). In conclusion, he better keep my spirits up!

His reaction to the absolutely ridiculous amount of stuff you turn up with. He might have thought I'm a pretty reasonable person, but that illusion is gonna be a fargone memory as soon as he sees the five pairs of shoes and the three kinds of jackets I am bringing for two nights away. Not to mention the content of my carry-on suitcase. I started off by laying out outfits on my bed and color coordinating skirts with cardigans and following all those packing advises and ended up throwing everything in that I saw in my closet and that looked like it could be worn under a coat. Which is a lot, if you ever wondered. Oh, well.

I bet there's something I didn't even think of yet. Please don't tell me - I'm relatively calm as of now, and that's irritating enough as it is. Until Sunday....

Love,

Rosy Smith