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

Hi, hi, hello, let's skip the "yeah I kinda didn't post all month last month again" sermon and get right into it, shall we?

The first semester of senior year is almost over and I'm nowhere near confident about my project deadlines. I think so is everyone else in my class. We're a fun little group with great shoes and panic in our eyes, ordering too much coffee and spending the first half hour of every lesson down at the vending machine, eating our nerves. I got five seperate To Do lists and it turns out that "writing the whole pr concept" does not get any less time consuming just by putting a little dash in front of it. What a nasty surprise.

On the move to the copying machine. How very dynamic.

Some people do sports to reduce stress. I went to my beloved ballet class yesterday, with all the best of intentions. However, when the ballet baby (my teacher always brings her eight (or nine? I'm new with this) month old boy, who used to be a total delight, lying peacefully on his back, listening to the classical music; now he's still absolutely delighful, just way more mobile and sound-intense) began leaning out of his little car seat, and the others were all talking about the choreography and looking the other way, horrors began forming in my mind, but before I could alert his mom, his cute big head threw off his balance and he rolled out of the seat and onto the floor. He wasn't seriously hurt (though he sure cried like he had just been pushed out of a moving car) and his mom assured me that things like these happen all the time, but I'm deeply ashamed for not having said anything sooner. I don't even wanna know how much of an annoying helicopter I'll be if I have children one day. I'm already dancing the dying swan scene with an alarmed twitching in my eyes because I can see the baby in the mirror, grabbing the power chord of the stereo behind me. I mean, I love this class with all my heart. But I'm still a teensy bit stressed.

I'm more of a "carbs fix everything" kinda gal

Focus on the little things. I am sitting in my car after riding the train home for an eternity, parked in the parking lot, and I am devouring a cold slice of cheese pizza and washing it down with coke from a plastic cup while blasting Taylor Swift. That scenario might not sound especially desirable to you, but think about it: I got my own car with a drink holder. I got enough time to enjoy my lunch in here all by myself without rushing. I had just the three dollars for my pizza floating around on the bottom of my purse. I'm not lactose intolerant. And I get to decide what music to put on.

Plan fun things for when it's over. I booked a hotel room for September. I got no way of getting there yet, but we won't be nagging about details, are we? "Book as many trips as possible without digging too deep into your pocket, because you don't know if you're gonna get a job right after graduating" is....probably too long for a new bumper sticker.

But honestly, like I'd ever put a bumper sticker on my car.

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

I sure did! No worries, I'm still here, back at school, physically unharmed except for the big scratch on my underarm that my cat gave me - love hurts, lovelies.

So what's going on? The semester started a month ago but, as always, I didn't do nothin' to get my projects started until this morning. It's tradition. This is the final stretch, and it comes in the form of me creating a literary magazine. Why yes, three years of fashion have sure ruled out that topic for me. I'm all for this, actually, creating my own vision and ladidaa. Let's just hope that "I work best under
pressure" line works out once again, shall we?

I'm being a good girl and going to the gym. Not to work out, God forbid, but I'm taking classes like I did in Hamburg, stretching and stuff. Using the steam room, drinking protein shakes at the bar with my oldest friend and flirting with the young instructor - isn't that what gym life is all about? And it gives me something to do in the evenings when I'd usually just come home from college and cry about the fact that the day is already over. Which brings me to the next point:

Keepin' busy is key to survive senior year in style. I'm dead tired every single day, but it's the good kind of tired, which is not owed to working too much (I know, that is probably a bad thing given the deadlines) but to having too much fun things to do at night.

That sounds so wrong. Let me give you an example, I went to that yearly birthday party (I guess they're all yearly, but whatever) this weekend, and this time, I didn't meet any creepy guys, but I had a heart to heart with the host who is most definitely the sweetest thing alive. He's just come back from traveling to all kinds of crazy places and now he's producing his own music. Meanwhile, I'm still trying to figure out if I should wear a fringe (I'm leaning towards no, by the way)

All by myself....we ain't big on attendance

 What I'm saying is, I found that I get less cry baby-ish over my stupid commute (we can actually almost count down the days as far as that's concerned - only three more months!) if I gotta rush to the next event that same day, be it drinks in the city or a nice night of catching up with my bestest friend. She's got a boyfriend now, and he seems to be absolutely adoring, which I like to hear about, because it makes me very happy (so he better watch out and keeps it this way, 'cause I hate disappointment).

Writing and working and writing some more - that's what I want to do, all the time, because the doom of going out into the world and having to get a job and buying my own pasta and learning about laundry detergent is hovering upon me, and these are the only things I know to get prepared. Oh, and a good manicure paired with Rouge Dior. That never fails to help.

Good to be back.

Love,

Rosy Smith

I went on a little European adventure to visit my loveliest friend abroad, and I fell in love with Italy all over again (the first time I did was in 2016 when us two summered in the most adorable town by the sea and got us our very own gang with a quaint but nice neighbour)....

It's not always hot. In fact, the first thing I saw getting off the plane was the snowflakes falling down at crazy speed. Good thing I traveled in the fuzziest clothes I own, my black fake fur and a long wool skirt that made me look like one of the Olsen twins in their homeless-chic phase, but more on the homeless side (is that politically incorrect or a fashion term or both?).

There's always coffee. It's cheap. And it's good. I didn't even need caramel flavored syrup and chocolate infusions to get it down, like I usually would at home. Since the weather wasn't exactly the sunniest and we were more interested in catching up than standing in line for the duomo (it's very pretty from the outside, too) anyways, we made stops for coffee at least twice a day, which could last a couple hours. However, I feel like that's one of the best ways to get familiar with the country; watching people and the city going by and listening to other guests' conversations (even though my Italian is basically at level zero).

Sightseeing means strolling around high fashion stores all day long. The buildings are beautifully built and the clothes are gracefully presented and everyone crossing your way is carrying a well-known purse. Exactly my kind of vacation. Even the corner newsstand hands you a black shopping bag that could easily mean you've been shopping something way more expensive than the latest Vogue. Your crepe literally comes on a golden plate. I wonder what the trashbags look like.


The Lago di Como is a happy place where nothing bad can find you. We followed the weather forecast and took the train (the wrong one, forcing us to freeze on the platform in some village and put on a harmonizing performance of our childhood jams in order to keep warm, probably disturbing everyone else for life), and suddenly, it was 60 degrees instead of 30 and we were wearing sunglasses while drinking our coffee on a sunny piazza. I bought a red bag and red heels (in a store that was probably the Italian equivalent of Target, but still, it's Italian after all) and my loveliest friend got some gorgeous boots and equipped with our new belongings, we climbed up into the mountains (to board a train up to a mansion. Never found the train, almost suffered a heatstroke from unplanned exercise. But the view was awesome). We got ice cream that tasted like the strawberrys were handpicked that same day (a garbage collector came up to me when I was done and said something I obviously didn't understand; I thought he was mad at me for setting my empty cup down and tried to form a sentence swearing that I'd throw it away, but in the end he just took it from me and we left). And we walked all around the lake and watched the sun set over it and the swans swimming and stumbled upon romantic corners and scenic balconies every five steps.


Trains fail you like they do anywhere else, but in Italian. I was already calculating my ride to the airport closely, and when I rushed up to the platform, people were just shaking their heads at me when I asked "Airport?" with wide fear-struck eyes. Cancellato, said the sign, and no official was around to be found and none of the announcements were in English, so I kind of gave in and made my peace with missing my flight and staying another night (it's not the worst to be held up in Milan, is it?). Made it though, with a full ten minutes to spare (and feeling absolutely disgusting in my not-made-for-running-outfit).

I hope your March started off full of dolce della vita. Let's see how the rest of it goes....

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