I'm watching a video by Safiya Nygaard about the ZozoSuit and I wrote about that thing in my trend forecasting class this year and now I feel really advanced.

Anyways, there's one thing on my mind basically at all times these days, and to the surprise of many, it's not a hopeless scheme to get a guy to text me back but something of way more existential substance: My hair.

It's new, I bought it about two months ago, and I'm still absolutely fascinated by it. As you can probably see, it's not like I got a full-on Baywatch weave now, but it's the little things about it that make me so happy:

I can feel it in other places than my face. Recently, I used to only ever really consciously notice my hair when a) it was so windy it clung to my face like a climbing plant or b) when I breathed in too powerfully and almost choked on a strand being vacuumed into my mouth with the air. At all other times, it was just floating around my head like a lightweight ball of cotton candy. Now, right this moment as I am writing this, some of it is stuck in the back of my sweater, covering my neck and the place between my shoulder blades, while some of it - yes, there is so much that there is still something left - hangs down over my shoulders and upper arms. When I wore a sleeveless top the other day for the first time in a while, I could feel it graze my back and elbows constantly. I remember that sensation from back when I was a child, leaning forward with my knees pulled to my chest and covering my legs with my hair. This probably reads really creepily, but you have to understand that I almost forgot what that feels like.

Consequently, I don't freeze my head off anymore. One fun fact about having really thin hair that gets lifted off into space as soon as there is the echo of a breeze is that it does not have any warming function whatsoever, and that is actually the whole purpose of having hair on your body. Now, I don't get a burning pain in my ear everytime I have to spend time in the cold anymore, which is lovely. However, I've been out dancing the other day and I gotta say this is gonna be interesting when it gets hot outside, because I can't just throw all this up in a bun as casually as I could - I have to flip the tapes over and try to hide them with my own material because there's nothing less attractive than what looks like ten sticky tapes exposed all over your scalp. Oh well, you pay a price for everything.

When it gets tangled (and it likes to do that a lot), I can brush it thoroughly and feel like a princess. Do you know what happens when you brush my natural hair? It basically blow up into a cloud of nothingness that goes absolutely electric as soon as touched. New hair? Falls into soft, big waves that fan out over my shoulders. I still can't quite grasp the magic here.

When I wear a hoodie, (which I don't, but think early Nicole Scherzinger in PCD) I can actually pull out some hair from underneath it. When I look at pictures, I'm not shocked by the ends of my hair resembling a frayed carpet. When I lean forward, it actually hides my face (like in that scene in Twilight when Bella watched Edward in Biology class in secret, the book, not the movie, don't ask why that's on my mind). If a guy was ever to romantically tuck a strand of my hair back, he could do so without suddenly holding half of it (by the way, I have a lot to say about the whole "living with extentions while talking to guys"-topic so let me know if you'd like to hear it).

What I'm saying is, it gives me so much and asks for so little (leave-in conditioner, half an hour of blowdrying, some gorgeously smooth oil and a ponytail to bed, what a sacrifice. Oh and money, right, almost forgot about that) - what's not to love?

Love,

Rosy Smith

Photographs were actually not allowed, oh well, here's my dress

Okay, so two lovely friends had gifted me a visit to the theatre for my birthday and since my bestest friend was off to Rome a couple days ago, we had to squeeze the visit in before she had to go, and this is how it went down....

I have literally JUST stepped out of my car and I can feel my nylons loosen around my thighs. Not because I miracously lost a few pounds, but because these are the ones I've worn on Friday that already got holes in them and are, apparently, not made out to be worn again. On the one day that I'm actually supposed to overdress a little. I text my friends if they can bring me some spare ones, but it's too late. I miserably sit on the platform and take a few pictures of my berry colored heels against the mud colored stone floor and post it to my newly beloved story.



I'm supposed to change trains now and I don't know which way to leave the platform. Oh and I look like a hooker, because I am constantly walking from side to side, holding my furry coat together at the front, my hand stuck between it trying to pull up my tights while in motion. Oh, and my heels are a bit big (for comfort, just like they royals have them) and I could walk a whole lot better in them if I wasn't hunched over like Quasimodo, so now I strut like him, too. It's my fourth round up here and running out of time, so I hide behind a pole (very uneffective if you were wondering) and gracefully step out of one heel at a time and roll my stockings down (not rouging my knees and all that jazz), pretending to be totally unfazed by literally undressing on a public train platform (this is a reoccuring technique throughout the whole story).

On I go, now barefoot in my heels meaning I'll also get blisters, schlepping myself into the subway and following the masses. I can practically feel the looks on my bare legs (even though honestly, a) it wasn't even that cold because I am wearing a BIG coat and have already lost all feeling in my legs due to wearing thights and sandals year-round, and b), in Britain, everyone is going around bare-legged until mid-November kicks in. People should educate themselves on their Victoria Beckham streetstyle), black fur and dark red lipstick. Not lusty ones, mind you, just disapproving/confused vibes.

Oh for God's sake, I'm on the wrong side, aren't I. I guess that means ten more minutes of having to silently defend myself for my goosebumpy legs and trying to remember when I last shaved them. Recording a voice memo for my loveliest friend to use the time wisely and inform all bystanders of the unfortunate circumstances that led to my dressing decisions. Maybe I can stop at a drugstore and buy some new ones, and three emergency packs, just to be safe.

Okay, so I finally met my friends and we do not have time to maybe stop at a drugstore and buy anything, so I'll just have to woman up until we're at the theatre. We do however manage to get a vegan kebap which I'm stuffing my dolled up face with while recounting the sad tale of Airbnb booking with college friends (oh yeah, that's why I was so late that I could not bother putting on freshly unpacked tights, I remember - a whole different saga, but hey, Hamburg's calling!).

The theatre is packed with high schoolers who are definitely being forced to write a report on this thing over the weekend. We're feeling very debonair with our drinks in hand and about the fact that we didn't get carded at the bar (wait does this mean we look old?). Since you can't take those inside and we're, who'd have thought, late for entrance, we chug 'em down in a very non-debonair fashion though, and I attempt to put my stockings back on without flashing a bunch of 16-year olds. Think I got by.

We're watching "Romeo and Juliet", by the way. Good old classic. Except it's a modern production and we're still emotionally scarred by the last one we saw, when we were in high school ourselves and took in some Schiller (it involved a lot of screaming, mud and black light). The costumes look....interesting. One guy's dressed as a frog and I am mentioning this only because he turns out to have the best body in this play. It's Mercutio, apparently, a slurring and swearing version of him. Romeo has tattoos all over and too many curls for my taste but he's taken, anyway, by an anemic Juliet who likes to break out into high-pitched screaming (there we go again) every once in a while.

This Mercutio sure has great muscle control. But he spits a lot, too, as they all do I should say, and I lean over to thank my bestest friend for anticipatorily booking second row because I bet the first got to share some of his saliva, and not in the good way.

The thing about these modern interpretations is, sometimes they're outright funny, as Shakespeare's supposed to be, and sometimes you're laughing because you just don't know how to react to the trauma you're experiencing.

Now poor Mercutio's dead at the hand of a very convincing sociopathic Tybalt and I'm honestly bummed about it. He's been my favorite in this crazy bunch. Romeo and Juliet are too sappy for my taste (not just these particular ones, the mere thought of them).

My friend seriously fell asleep when Juliet did and awoke to Romeo throwing himself on the floor. She missed, like, the whole tragedy. But that's okay, it's old news, really.

Except to the train security guy who attempted to hit on me on my way home (he saw me at the platform, bare-legged again, but I managed to scrape up my tights before he came to sit by me and chat instead of securing the wagon). I would have much rather listened to music but didn't want to be rude (he wasn't creepy, just really not my type) so I educated him on the bard until he tried to convince me that there was another Shakespeare play that had to do with experimental sex, and even though I am by no means familiar with all of them, I'm pretty sure he was making this up. So when he asked if I was single not only did I decline (little white lie), I also held up my beringed hand (it's a weird reflex I have) and let him believe I was engaged (ridiculously big lie). I even smiled in a bewitched gaze when talking about how yes, he is also still studying and no, the wedding isn't until we both get jobs. I almost bought it myself until I stumbled back to my car with my tights riding down and keys in my hand ready to stab a man if necessary (or at least give him a minor scratch to buy myself some running time, I'm no Tybalt).

So yeah, pretty eventful night - I'll have you know that Mercutio isn't as enticing when google-searched as he is when wishing a plague on both your houses, but that's already something, isn't it?

Love,

Rosy Smith

LinkedIn is the new Instastalking. For reasons I'd rather not mention, I avoid Facebook and Instagram pages of boys that I talk to (oh screw it, it's because I don't like seeing the lovey-dovey couple shots the fitness guy posted while texting me about his morning, um, cravings), but since having been to Cambridge, I love checking out their LinkedIn profiles. Instead of mood-killing pictures of beer pong tournaments back in 2014 and bad skin phases, the profile pic on here usually entails a suit (good), a fresh haircut (good) and a neutral expression that doesn't make me uncomfortable (what else could you ask for?). Instead of a list of the stupid games they play on their phone, there's one of actually useful, maybe even impressing skills that they have (or are confident about being able to fake in case an employer asks to see them). Instead of the vacation they've been on with their parents and the club they hit every weekend, you get a nice rundown of the schools they went to, and, very essential, where they work(ed). Not saying this in a gold-digging kinda way, but it never hurts to look at education/ambition/situation, does it? I find this a million times more interesting than shirtless pictures, because honestly, I can get that view other ways. Also, I think it's pretty neat when a guy has his professional presence down, but that might be my personal thing (though I'm too superficial to be a true sapiosexual, I want it all: The looks and the brains).

What the hell happened to taking it slow? I think we all got into a grand misunderstanding, relationship-definition-wise, because lately, it either seems to be "Totally unattached, plainly sexual, but still hurtful if ended" or "Let's get married a month from the first day we kissed and don't you dare reject one of my calls while you are having friends over or I'll think you hate me now". I don't know about you, but if that's the options, I'm choosing the hurtful sex thing because honestly, at least that's drama free until you really have something to be crushed about. Have people forgotten about the wonderful, carefree, first few weeks or even months of not having to worry about next summer, but not having to worry about one of you sleeping with your best mate on the side, either? The magical time when yes, you can be completely sure of one another at the moment because you are in a blissful state of getting to know each other during long sofa talks and weekends of staying in bed and getting yourself the best muscle ache ever, but do not yet have to figure out the logistics of your job abroad and his family hating you for not wanting kids or whatever, because why the hell would you do that at this point? I get it, we're all getting older and those topics gotta come up sooner rather than later nowadays because screwing around for two years before thinking about maybe sometime moving in together isn't so cute anymore when you're nearing the end of your twenties, but give it a few weeks before naming your children, goddammit.

Last but not least, Instagram is so much fun - I know that I'm probably the last person on earth to discover my Insta-vibe, but see, the app is always crashing on me and I have not photo-artistic talent whatsoever, so I've always been more of a stalker-y bystander in this game. However, after getting my geek on and researching sneaky ways to keep it running smoothly, I am now happily annoying people with overexposed pictures of pasta and dirty mirror selfies. And I've started to get DMs -not those icky ones from strangers who are trying to sell blue pills, but from people I actually know in that weird state of not exactly being friends but apparently still having a reason to talk to each other. Now me, being relatively new to this conversation style, I wonder: Is this just a messaging service you use on the side for your "we would probably never see each other in real life"-friends, like tumblr messages? Or is it the wagon to WhatsApp, testing out if the other person is worth putting into your phone book, just as Facebook Messenger? I would actually prefer the latter, because the DMs are still regularly making my phone kill itself and it's exhausting.

I'm currently stuck at home avoiding writing what I actually have to write, but fun times lie ahead next week!

Love,

Rosy Smith

Lovelies, hold your Cosmos and have a sip, 'cause it finally happened: I got to take my diploma and a rose and turn my back on fashion school! Anyone who's been here since 2015 has heard me moan, gossip and exaggerate about it for so long, they probably feel like they went there, too. But sometimes even I had something nice to say about it all, as I do tonight:

There was a nostalgic "through-the-years"-power point presentation and I'm a sucker for that. Sure, the pictures of the first and last days of school were simply horrifying, but there was a clip of me being editor of a project and scribbling away into my notebook, wearing a green pinafore dress and feeling très important, and I think I went "aww" pretty audibly (audible? Language's caving in on me already).

Also, who cares about those dumb old photos, I got great hair now. And by that I literally mean now, since I've only had it for half a week - college made my hair fall out (at least that's one of my top five theories, allergic reaction to artsy neon light), so to mark this new glorious chapter of my life, I blew on all supplements, lentil stews and head massages and got tape extensions. I'm touching my head every five minutes to check if they're still there and not peaking through like in the nightmare I had the night before I got them done, but I'm irrevocably hooked on them. Everyone at graduation went "Oh my GOD your HAIR" and tucked at the strands; it's very sweet how much they emphasize.



Some of us were so hyped we didn't want to leave yet, after all canapés were munched up and the fizzy wine called for real food, so we relocated to the one restaurant that took us in (spontanously needing a table for ten on a friday night in the city isn't the brightest idea, but we're not known for our thorough planning anyways) and I had baked mozarella - a homage to my Hamburg days and the fact that I a) can't cook and b) have questionable food cravings.



Anyways, I posted some pictures to show the fitness guy what an amazing weekend I'm having, or rather, how amazing my hair looks. That's the main purpose here as well, actually, so did you take a good look?

I'll stop being this obnoxious sooner or later, I think. Maybe.

Love,

Rosy Smith

Me Shamelessly Cropping People Out Of Photos

Is it just me or does this month feel like it is never ever ending? Not that that's necessarily a bad thing, 'cause I have spent the last week doing absolutely nothing productive whatsoever and have a deadline coming up in February, so I could use a little timelapse, because lately I have been....

If you know me you'll know that I like to talk about myself a lot, hence me being on here devoting an entire space of the web to that pasttime. And I like to wallow and blow things out of proportion and generally drag my current states of emotion into the spotlight. But sometimes, it's actually other people's life changes that make you feel things. Seeing your friends mourn, for instance, is one of the strangest experiences of that kind and definitely on the worse side. Or watching them go through break-ups, seeing it coming, witnessing the aftermath. And see, now we're back at my point of view and my own baggage that's only waiting to be triggered by such an unwelcome echo of extra-bubbly-texting-to-check-in-conversation and late-night phone calls with heartwrenching tears on one end and desperately-searching-for-something-soothing-to-say-silence on the other. I remind myself that no part I play in this is going to earn me time-traveling points. That my focus this time is that of an innocent bystander providing first aid, that I'm not stuck in the burning wreck. But still, there's the same sense of sadness and hovering smoke in the air and my fingers are getting itchy again, still holding my phone.

Ha, I bet you're thinking that I'm doing something really stupid now, but before you get mad, let me explain. I told someone I'm probably not gonna see anytime soon, if there's no incredible coincidence, what the time I spent with them made me feel like. In a non-romantic way. I paid them a compliment, like you would in a thank-you-note. It doesn't matter if they're not gonna reply, it doesn't matter if they didn't have the same experience. It doesn't matter that they're highly unlikely to whisk me away and solve all my outstanding life decisions for me, because truthfully, that was highly unlikely before as well. But maybe they're gonna be flattered, or glad that their presence had that effect on me, or relieved because they weren't the only ones feeling some type of way. And I think anyone would like to hear something like that, so why not tell them? It's not gonna change anything in retrospective, neither in a good nor in a bad way. There's no shame in having had a nice time with someone.

So if you ever feel a bit sad and delusional and helpless, tell them. Tell your friend that you are thankful to have them in your life. Tell you parents you love them. Tell a stranger you like their dress. Write a letter to your favorite author, they might read it. Tell me to shut up with the emotional outbreaks already, but also tell me if you liked them.

Love,

Rosy Smith

Let's not even talk about ghosting in (sorta-)relationships. That's unnecessary, childish demeanour and we all know it. But I'm afraid that this sort of misbehavior has latched over to plain, platonic, friendly conversations, and to that I quote the great Stephanie Tanner: How RUDE!

See, sometimes in a girl's life, one feels a bit lonely, especially on certain holidays that are otherwise known as "celebration of love". And in that case, one evaluates their possibilities: Whom to text to get a little pick-me-up? Not every guy in the phone book is suitable for this occasion. The ones with real emotional attachment are too dangerous, as that might lead to further confusion of the heart and a great big case of the Christmas blues. The ones who have ghosted before simply do not deserve to be honored with an outreach at this mushy time of the year. Which leaves us with the one category you hadn't managed to screw up yet: The Friendly Platonic.

The Friendly Platonic is someone who maybe sorta likes you in a non-platonic way but never did anything about it, and whom you like enough to not be totally appaled by the thought of him doing so sometime in the future. It is totally innocently fine to text him first, 'cause you haven't become involved in any texting games yet, and it provides just the dash of excitement and attention you need during this gloomy patch of yours.

It's nice. It's harmless. It's a bit awkward, for that matter, but it's only smalltalk.
Until he asks a nice, harmless, slightly awkward question and then fails to respond to your answer. He reads it, but the day goes by without a follow-up, and then another day, and by now the conversation is basically slandered forever and you are fuming and cursing this poor, friendly guy. And that's because basic rules of common courtesy have been set out of works by all the millenial-textinggame-crap that's out there. It has clogged our natural reaction pipes and fogged our minds and tricked us into thinking we have to have the upper hand in every last two-line exchange. I hate it with passion and fury and at the same time I know that it only affects me so much because I'm getting such a kick out of it myself, when it's playing out nicely for me, that is.

So here I am, a week or so later, in my kid's pyjama's at eleven pm, reading Dolly Alderton's "Everything I know about love" (which, by the way, is another work I'll add to the names I confusingly drop when trying to paint a picture of what I want to do with my newfound graduate status, all while talking so fast no one can follow along so they just assume I have a plan), annoyed with all guys and myself while I'm at it. See, New Year's went by as of today, and I am pausing my read to reevaluate the "Whom can I text on Christmas Day"-question that has turned into the "All the boys who did not wish me a happy new year and why"-saga. Obviously, I did not worry about that at the appropriate time of midnight on the 31st because I was in lovely company in a velvet nineties dress and sparkly tights, looking forward to mousse au chocolat. No, this is for the gloomy first days of January when your new year new me plan is not exactly kicking off to a quick start because you're still binging Christmas candy.

Anyways, see, now, not only do the "attached emotion" and the "currently not talking to me" options fail to surprise. The Friendly Platonic has not redeemed himself by saying "oh wow I got sidetracked, but happy new year doll, maybe we shall meet again soon, would certainly hope so" (please note my oh so visible attempt of a British accent). Well, his loss. I would have dead-on swooned about that for weeks to come.

Get this, lovelies. After getting worked up about the swooning I missed out on I was just over here scrolling through particularly nice messages from the "currently not talking to me" guy, reminiscing about a time when I would stay up until two chatting, get up at six, not eat all day and then meet him in my skimpiest workout clothes to make him text me again after hours (honestly, I know how that sounds, but I assure you it was fun), and whose name pops up as soon as I switch back into online mode (I don't like to see people online while I'm stalking my own conversation with them)? Yeah, indeed.

Am I supposed to wish him a happy new year back or call him out on how firstly, it's the second day of the year so really, it's old news to me, and secondly, how dare he ignore my "you up" text for the whole of  December and then try and slide that past me with a half-effed smiley face and a little fireworks emoji? Or does he want to make a move on me again?

Okay, maybe it isn't a clear indication that he wants to make a move on me again. It's not the "you have every right to be mad" speech he pulled off last time. But it's not like you have to wish someone you ghosted a happy new year. I certainly wouldn't do that. It's a bit much on the false sense of moral, even for him. Also, today is probably the last day you could use new year's wishes as an excuse to randomly contact someone (and ignoring their "you up" text in an elegant fashion): Not doing it around midnight could be due to heavy drinking and other people priorities, not doing it on the 1st due to the hangover and other people priorities still being at your place. So.

 It's been 45 minutes and I still haven't decided if/when/what to text him. Two of my friends are dealing with January troubles of sorts that do not call for unsolicited screenshots and me retelling my whole tale of why I still think it's a good idea to talk to someone they repeatedly claimed to despise. My loveliest friend is probably working and not looking at her phone; also, she very definitely despises him as well. Still, I can't be left unsupervised with this.

I hope you've had lots of cute texts from people you actually love, and if not, here's mine to you: Have a magical new year!!

Love,

Rosy Smith

 My lovelies, it's Christmas Eve again and me and my family are off to our holiday getaway! I've had my massage (I always spend about half the time thinking that I should saviour how relaxed I am and then I realize I'm not focusing on the relaxation and then it all starts again but the other half of the time I'm truly relaxed and it's all wonderful). Also, I now smell like a human honeypot.

Well made tofu is so rare in this world!

There's soup in there, though you can't see it

I think I got steam on my lense by this point

My loveliest friend wrote me a beautiful letter today - we had been reminiscing about our teenage years (I know, seeing how I look like I'm twelve most of the time that doesn't seem so far away, but trust me, I'm old) recently and decided to write a little something about that to each other for Christmas. It's a bit like trying to catch a moment in a jar, so you can save it for later (who knows where I stole that expression?). I think that's one of the things I love most about the power of words, the ability to save and saviour and keep and create forevers.


Speaking of keeping, I brought my camera, as I've told you - I sincerely hope that I'm not messing up the film, because it really takes some time to get used to not being able to see your picture directly after taking it, so you can't really tell wether you're choosing good lighting and things. But I do love the fact that I'll be looking at Christmas photographs again in a few weeks time, once I get this baby developed!

Oh but back to the writing, I got a book called "The Best of Everything", and it sounds absolutely fabulous; it's from the 50's and its main characters are women working in publishing in New York City and the plot follows their personal and professional ups and downs and I've only read a few pages but I feel so spoken to already! Maybe it'll hold some sort of fateful revelations for me, who knows.

I hope you are having a sparkling time with your loved ones right now.

Love,

Rosy Smith

So apparently, I am so well prepared for my business plan setup that I forgot how to count and somehow left out Day 19. Oh well, one has to give every year I guess.

While I am on the train back into the city after attending a family affair yesterday night, let me tell you about the fun two friends and I got up to. See, my bestest friend has lovely long hair in a more light brunette color than me, but also with reddish undertones. And while I could never fulfill my childhood dream of copper highlights because my hair is of such poor health it would probably fall out with shock, she decided to really go for it and put some fierce color to it. It was all very boheme art student on a Friday night like, except we didn't smoke and it was a Wednesday. But we did lay out newspapers in her parents' bathroom, put on sweats and band shirts, got a Magnum mini and put a Zeitgeisty songwriter band on the speakers. My other friend got her hands a bloody red (it all resembled a very messy birthing situation) while covering my bestest friends head in the dye and I was super helpful with little wet handkerchiefs to wipe the worst of her neck and ears, while being the annoying aunt who films everything for good memory (If I'm ever short on gifts, it'll be this home video, made with love). I mean, isn't this what dreams of independence are made of? Now we will be able to look back to "that time when we sat on the bathroom floor laughing with red dye everywhere, and worrying a bit while she washes out her hair that it's going to come out too bloody, and her excited shrieks when she realizes she is now a redhead (even though only for eight washing turns)"

Good times, lovelies.

Love,

Rosy Smith

It's been a while, my lovelies! But here I am, and so much has happened, and so much WILL happen that I am very very excited to totally blow out of proportion and share with you in my usual biased way....

I kinda sorta somehow graduated fashion college! Have not gotten my diploma yet because honestly, the administration is not exactly known for speed, but it's done, it's over and I will never ever have to worry about my pictures not being 300 dpi or a font I like seeming not modern enough to my professor's sacred taste. I am ecstatic. Even though it means that....

I kinda sorta somehow have to get a job this coming year. I'm still studying for my bachelor's degree until June for my own academic satisfaction but meanwhile, I'd like to change out of my sweats and get off my study sofa, put on some pretty shoes and earn some money writing (oh, I sound so goshdarn optimistic about that, it's lovely). Let's hope this time the magazine doesn't shut down as soon as I get there like the last one did (better not mention that coincidence on my resume, I guess)!

I kinda sorta somehow make up texting games that only I know the rules to, so I'm not sure if it's working or if I should lay out the rules more openly. Don't get it? See, me neither!

I kinda sorta somehow turn another year older tomorrow! I'm having my 22nd birthday party tonight and it'll be a blur of silver, Cosmos and cake. I got myself a flippin' flapper dress and I intend to shake it all night long. I gotta run and do my make-up, so this is a short one, but it feels good to be back!

See you tomorrow,

Love,

Rosy Smith

 
It's been a while, hasn't it? I blinked a little too much into the sun and now it is September, New York Fashion Week came and went and I still refuse to transfer into fall. Mainly because that would mean that I would have to get working on my various deadlines (for those who haven't been counting along with me for the last three years, I am graduating fashion school this fall - man, I can still remember those exhausted, ice-cream-craving Gilmore-Girls-binging winter nights in freshman year when I literally had no work to do except showing up and feeling sorry for myself), but also because I love summer and feel like I haven't spent enough time outside showing off all the pairs of sandals I keep buying (four pairs of shoes in a month, a personal record I think).

I have a thing for dots at the moment, is what I'm trying to say

But alas, in a series of coincidences I have already aquired tons of fall-appropriate clothes, so that's something to look forward to! And my Gosh have I been living sustainability or what: I dug up smart jacket-and-pencil-skirt-sets and oversized cardigans from my mom (she has a magical closet, seeing how I seem to have only just discovered a whole decade of power-dressing in there that I never laid eyes on before), got gifted a series of leather skirts and Parisian silk as a hand-me-down from a whirlwind socialite who went a bit overboard with her shopping recently and I got beautiful, dark bordeaux-colored pumps a size too big for me so they don't kill my heels (each summer I forget to tape my feet before walking around the city for hours in tight strappy sandals and each summer I am astonished how many blisters you can get on top of each other). And if that wasn't enough to make all my fellow materialists go mmh with label-lust, please sit down for the approaching:

Prom-dress-shopping! 'tis a little early for me to fully indulge in that, considering that I should whip up some sort of creative wisdom to be graded on before I think about getting a certificate. But my oldest friend is shipping off to nine months in Cambridge in a week, and we had to get her equipped with some fancy European cocktail gowns. The one we found the other day has an absolute charming 20s vibe to it, and it is such a specific color that we had to lounge it around with us to hunt down some shoes, and it just so happened that we found a match so perfect that the employees cheered for us with tears in their eyes. One of them threw in an anectode about a well-known TV presenter whom he had "literally just sold a pair to", as if we needed any more convincing. Ah, the high of handing out your credit card in exchange for something so pretty. I've never felt this good after working out, certainly. Well, at least not due to the physical activity.

By the way, I dared to try something out of some random online mag article recently. The tip went a little like "to get close to him, just pretend to brush something of his face and lean in, then let your fingers linger a bit". Those writers surely never tried this while being excited about that person. Because if they had, they would know that you'd be too scared to actually touch his face - like, who does that, it's so unsanitary - and instead opt for his neck, and hesitate to get out the sentence, and then you don't linger smoothly with your hand on his shoulder but kinda draw circles with the tip of your finger, and when you say "you've got something there" he steps aside and says "no I don't", 'causing you to fall over (because you were leaning in like the stupid article told you to do) and very non-seductively grabbing onto his arm to keep from collapsing onto his feet. And then you realize that he is probably self-conscious about the little fuzz that he has on his neck and which he thinks is what you meant, not getting that you straight-up lied in order to awkwardly touch him. So you drop the plan and proceed to drum onto his (very hard, I should mention) stomach, and honestly I wouldn't vow on that being a turn-on, but then again what do I know, I tried brushing away fuzz. The moral of the story is, if you're in gym clothes, don't try to pull any moves, because it is very hard to get your message across if it is not a hundred percent obvious to the guy already.

Now go out and get some sun before we're snowed in again!

Love,

Rosy Smith

Even in this day and age of so-called communication, I often times encounter great misunderstandings, especially between the different sexes. It is generally assumed that women use secret girl code and are therefore impossible to be attended to since men are not genetically equipped to understand said code. However, I know way more men who seem to encrypt their true intention, and other than girls, they don't have a code pattern. They just do.

Before I get accused of bashing boys, let's bring in an example, shall we?

A guy who is obsessed with his girlfriend's birth control habits. Does she take the pill? Why won't she take the pill? Why is she getting annoyed when he's asking her if she's changed her mind about the pill? Firstly, none of this is his business. Obviously, he has a right to know if and what form of birth control she uses, so he knows what risk they're dealing with exactly (but they're all risks, aren't they?). But since it is her body and her hormonal messup, the final decision really does not include him. If he is not comfortable with the unwanted birth rate of anything other than the pill, then he may proceed not to have sex with her. So now we agreed that he does not have a real point, which is something he must know, what could be the reason for his behaviour? The only valid thing I can come up with is that he thinks she does not want to commit to taking a long-term contraceptive because she does not see them being a long-term couple. And that, lovelies, would be much easier to find out by simply asking the damn question.

Now onto the topic of coffee. I'll admit that I've asked someone out for a coffee before and imagined the situation to turn into a much more romantic one. But that was more or less understandable seeing that I already did all sorts of intimate things with that guy (like puking in hearing distance to him and wiping my snot on his shoulder. Using my grossest examples so that this does not get emotional). Okay and now that I think about it, our first date was also him asking me out if I wanted to get coffee sometime, BUT, and here I am thinking I'm right again, we ended up going for dinner and a movie, which is totally a date, and the coffee-question was just the opener for the conversation that led to the date, so technically, I'm totally right.

Just realized I didn't mention what I'm explaining to be right about.

I'm saying that, if you as a stranger ask me if I'd like to go out with you, and I say we can go for coffee "sometime", I am downgrading the situation from you asking me out on a date in the near foreseeable future to us grabbing a paper cup at our local Starbucks in the endless dust of "sometime". Because I'm not using a code phrase to let you know I like you, I'm stating facts: I only like you enough to encounter you in broad daylight, with other people being there, with you not spending more than five bucks on me (scratch that, I'll pay for myself), for a limited amount of time.

However, I fear that that might not be so clear to everyone out there.

Love,

Rosy Smith

Could say this matches the marriage theme but actually, just wanted to show off the dress

 Because why the hell not?

I mentioned before that I'm going to the gym now. Well, I've stopped. Because as far as flirting with the young instructor goes, he now feels it would be unprofessional to further pursue our flirtationship at the same time as him being my instructor, so obviously I quit the instructing part for the sake of my satisfaction. You haven't seen the chest on that man. Also, what a way to save money, am I right?

Mind you, I don't want to be his girlfriend. I'm unhappily in love with someone else, thank you very much. The last thing I need is a boyfriend I have to explain my sudden outbursts into tears to. But oh my gosh, those arms. Anyways, I made that very clear to him. I have a feeling that he's also unhappily in love with someone else still, so we're actually perfect for each other, speaking unhealthy-rebound-wise.

Now we crossed that tmi-line for good.

Meanwhile, other people are getting married. Remember that one guy my bestest friend very, very briefly dated two years ago? That slightly weird one who seemed to support kitchen kisses with other couples at that party? Yeah, he's getting hitched next year to his former on n off girlfriend from overseas. I am feeling a multitude of feelings towards these news, which is probably more than I should be, considering that I'm not really much acquainted with the happy couple. But think about it:

Firstly, how weird is it that my friend can now say "That one guy I once dated is currently on his honeymoon" or "Oh I don't know her, but I went out with her husband a few years ago"? How did we get this old? I mean, sure, they're also on the younger side in the marriage business, but still, it kinda freaks me out. Remember, I'm currently being complimented on my butt by a complete stranger and that is the maturity level we're at. Secondly, I know this guy through my certain someone and I so wish I could trash this topic with him instead of just imagining his side of the conversation while staring out the window with an amused look on my face. Also, and don't ask me how the decision of an almost-stranger does that to me, but it brings up all kinds of sorrowful thoughts and general anxiousness linked to the fact that I'm not in a position to call up my certain someone for the aforementioned trashing.

I like to pretend time is standing still.


Love,

Rosy Smith

Aah, February. What are we gonna do with you. Let's find out, shall we?

This is not the greatest picture ever taken, but it's the only one I could crop myself out of. Not 'cause my friends aren't pretty, but 'cause I'm not sure if they'd wanna be on here

Yeah we went out to celebrate carnival. Interestingly, Hamburg is like, the one place in Germany where they don't actually do carnival, but we tracked down a party, threw together some costumes from scratch and merrily went off (after changing in the fancy foyer bathroom of our workplace, scaring the concierge in the process). When we made it to the location, there were literally fifteen people there, so we refused to waste our hard-earned money and sat down outside, counting the arriving guests. We made minus. Two guys left, but not without coming by and telling us how much that place blew and that we should come with them to another spot, so naturally, we took up their advice and ended up having a lovely night at a very authentic bash right underneath city hall. The lesson here, lovelies: Don't talk to strangers, unless they look like they know where it's going on.

Currently listening to: Cry Baby, by Melanie Martinez, as well as Cry Baby, by Demi Lovato. Different approaches, same belt-out potential. Love me a good "mascara all over my face" aesthetic. You must think I'm such fun at parties, right? But don't you worry, because

I'm all moved back into my parent's house, to finish up my last year at fashion school! I have to say, looking at the still-not-unpacked boxes around me (and the fact that all my clothes are holed up in my suitcase and I am too lazy to hang them up and therefore have nothing to wear at all), there is a certain nostalgia for my spacious, generally orderly apartment with the great shoe rack. However, home does have lots of perks to it, such as fully cooked food at reasonable hours of the day, cough medicine (I'm not an addict, I actually am sick. I think my ribs are broken, but I might have just pulled a muscle while coughing out my lungs. Again, glamorous party trick) and loved ones around.

For instance, I met up with my bestest friend already! She is currently seeing someone new (or rather, new in the sense of him being "seeing" material), and we were wondering: When is the right time to ask to see the other person's health record? Do you just casually whip out your own and say "oh, I just happened to pick this up, why don't you show me yours, too, sometime?" To be honest, I'd probably totally forget about that. Even though it is an important matter and there's no shame in checking your health and ladida, you know I get queasy talking about my UTIs, so how do you expect me to be cool about this? Also, it just seems so unromantic and un-fun and un-spontaneous. But maybe there is some kind of secret code to use? I am a big fan of using secret codes for uncomfortable conversations (remember Sunday?).

Someone who's in a wholly different sphere of being right now is my loveliest friend. She's currently studying in Milan, and if you haven't been hiding from humanity you'll know that Milan fashion week is going on right now - so it's Fendi for lunch and Prada at night for her. Everyone's there, Anna, the other Anna, Olivia, Gigi; notice how I'm already using their first names like I'm a close personal friend? And I'm not even there. Got the pictures to prove it, though. I'm flying out next weekend, which I'm already overly excited about, not 'cause of the fashion (well, a bit, too), but because we'll be finally reunited (my loveliest friend and I, if that wasn't quite clear. It's hard not to get caught up there).

Love,

Rosy Smith

....doesn't make you stronger.


(I just listened to Sara Bareilles' "Brave" and it inspired me. I feel like this song is the perfect excuse for anyone who's already on the verge of sending a risky text.)

If it doesn't kill you, and by "it" I mean great emotional distress, well, that just means one is obviously incapable of physically dying of a broken heart, and that's not even a medical miracle, because it happens rather rarely these days. All those romantic characters from Bronte (I don't know how to do these double dots above the e) stories who kicked the bucket probably weren't in such a good health condition to begin with. You know, pneunomia and all that jazz that comes with living near a moor while dressing in musselin.

One is not stronger. If one was, it wouldn't feel like it's killing them. If one was, they wouldn't have to think about cheesy phrases like that. They would just shine on in their newfound strongness and belt out Kelly Clarkson songs. But they're not, are they? I think it should be "what doesn't kill you shows you how weak you can actually be if you reaally try". Or "what doesn't kill you makes you witness your lowest point, heaving over the toilet because you cried yourself sick, in full consciousness".

Now said Kelly Clarkson song came on in my Spotify mix. That is one cruel coincidence. Well played. I still hate it.

Love,

Rosy Smith

PS: I love most other Kelly Clarkson songs, though. Her new album is great, for instance.

PPS: I got a weird pronoun thing going on here. I tried to be objective. 

It's my last night alone in the apartment, because my parents are coming tomorrow. I'm watching Youtube  (my Netflix trial subscription ran out on Valentine's), and I may or may not be in the middle of an attempt to empty half a bottle of wine, because I'm a good girl and don't want to waste leftovers. I'm just realizing that this spot, sat in the spare room in front of the window, is a lot like Carrie's writing situation in Satc. If I actually lived here and would actually spent time working, this would be so cool. I would totally sit and gaze over at the supermarket across the street. It's not the Village, but still. It's such a weird feeling to know that I'm not likely to live in this apartment ever again. Maybe in this city, but who knows?

I've only just come to have a lovely social circle, to know some cool going-out destinations, to get more confident at work and settle in a home routine. I got my favorite supermarket sushi, my Saturday ballet class and the people I go to lunch with and who call me when they're walking home in the dark. I just remembered how I wrote a while back that I had yet to meet someone who I'd talk to about things like marriage and having kids while sitting on the living room floor, and I spent Wednesday doing  that exactly with one of the intern girls.

I think I just spat on my screen coughing. Did I mention that I have a grand cold? I'm near losing my voice, and I've screeched at everyone at the office today while trying to finish up with my work.

My work - even though there's been days when I just wanted to call in sick and keep to myself for the day, I've never dreaded it. I like going somewhere with a purpose and knowing that I'm spending my day being somewhat productive. I like being part of this big business and whirling into the foyer in my black fake fur coat, greeting the doormen, knowing my way around. I like being taken seriously and being given responsibilities, even if I get stressed out as soon as I have more than two things going on at a time. I'll get to that. I'll get to being calm and organized. I've been doing this current job for six weeks only. so I'm practically still starting and I'm sure that it'd be totally different after six months of training.

Also, I have made some choices regarding what I want to do when I finish university this fall. Or rather, regarding what I don't want to do. And I think that, especially in the creative field, it's okay to start off with something that you already know you only want to be doing temporarily, until you get more comfortable and can branch out into something less safe, and then switch it up again, depending on the contacts and experiences you made and the opportunities that present itselves to you. There's only crooked ways out there, am I right?

God, I love this place. I'd be lying if I said that I'd been solely happy here. At times, I've been incredibly lonely. But I would have felt that wherever I had spent the past six months. And apart from that, I loved being here. Part of me is ready to go home, because of certain people, certain things I miss. But I hate the finality of saying goodbye to this apartment, to this independent routine of my own that is closely tied to this place.

The cough is getting worse now so I better get on with packing and drinking this up. Next time we'll talk, I'll be back to my childhood home, which will always be, you know, home to me. But this comes as a close second.

Love,

Rosy Smith

Someone took a picture

Behold, I am wearing a sweatshirt, for the first time in years. I will not keep it on when I'm leaving the house tonight. That would be sheer madness.

So, it is the first real day of the year (because really, who gets anything done on January 1st?) and it's time to start wrapping our heads around what that means....

'Tis the year I'll graduate. Huh. I almost wanna say I wasn't prepared for this, but who would believe me, after I've practically been counting down the hours since my first semester. Do I have to start looking for a job now? Do I feel capable of doing one of those? Lots of amusing things to think about at night. But honestly - if I did get one, I could finally buy myself a microwave and display all the candle holders and cakestands from my dowry box (you'd think I was kidding, but na-ah).

'Tis the year my loveliest friend goes off to Milano for four months. Tonight's the last time I see her before we both leave for our respective places abroad - that is, until I go visit sometime in between moving home and starting the semester. I'm so gonna do it. We'll be back to being belle ragazze in bella Italia, just like the summer before last (throwback here), and it'll be fantastico.

'Tis the year I started with an accidental mini-fringe. Let's just say that I have developed an understanding of that urge to clip off your hair with some nail scissors, and that got mixed with a sudden admiration for the hairstyle that Leah Remini sports in the first season of The King Of Queens that I've been rewatching. I have some sort of semi-permanent hair dye left from the office, too, so we shall see what we're gonna make of that.

Sounds like the plan is a very loose one this time around - leaves more space for imagination, though.  So it's really up to what we come up with.

Love,

Rosy Smith

Well, you know my motto is "If I'm still eating Christmas chocolates, it's not over". Consequently, we'll be good until Easter.

You've seen my Christmas Eve plenty of times, so let me just put it in a nutshell with this very poised picture I took after downing my mulled wine and smudging my Rouge Dior with dinner:



'Twas all very lovely, as a Christmas Eve should be and as I hope yours was, as well. On Christmas Day I went on my annual twenty minutes of biking at the gym (all done with exercise for another year now), took a little trip to the spa (the best part of that is rushing back to your room in your sweats with greasy hair from the facial and collapsing onto your bed, because lying on your back for half an hour while someone is caressing your face is exhausting, apparently) and went bowling and pool-playing with my family. I still suck at bowling, but I kinda wanna go try my luck at a pool table dive bar now.

Now I'm back in my childhood room for another week, and it is stuffed with suitcases and laundry baskets and gifts stacked on the floor. What frightens me is that I haven't even brought, like, big stuff back from the apartment yet. I didn't buy that much, did I? Anyways, let's deal with that when we can't ignore it any longer, just as it is my custom.

I'll allow myself to slouch for another day, and then I'll ring in the New Year with my loveliest friend, and then I'll be back and running (metaphorically, obviously. I think I can safely say that I won't ever ever ever develope a taste for running in the literal sense)!

See you so soon.

Love,

Rosy Smith

Gosh, I have been so, so bad with my Blogmas this year. But alas, I can't help it now. I mean, it's probably a good sign that I have been so busy that I simply didn't manage to write something before I went to bed. Christmas came fast this year, didn't it? Especially since we've had lots to do at the office, even though it was not quite the important strike in journalism that you might expect (or does no one expect that from a women's magazine anyway?)....

Everything Must Go

It's done, it's over, the rooms are a brilliant mess but everything worth taking has been snatched up by somebody (I ran into the guy who always brings in the big silver boxes looking at jewelry for his wife yesterday) and all the PR Christmas gifts in forms of liquids have been drank down. Us interns bid our goodbyes to the editors, and it's funny how they all seemed most approachable in our last days of working together. The hierarchy probably faded once the daily routine broke down to "Let's delete all this Valentine's crap, we're not printing anything in March anyways".

    
I Need More Bookshelves

I arrived home this afternoon (hence the extremness of the inconsistency) with my belongings in literal boxes (and a suitcase. No, two. And a backpack, a tote bag, a clutch and a beauty case. And that other bag). Somehow, there seems to be so much more to put away now that I am sitting in my childhood room, which aleady has all these other thing in it that I couldn't take with me to Hamburg because there was no space. In an apartment, mind you. But I am going to worry about this later, because tomorrow, it's Christmas Eve! That means we'll be driving to our traditional holiday hideaway - and I didn't need to bring much for that.

See you there.

Love,

Rosy Smith