"F*ck. I have nothing to wear." How many times have I said that in the last month? Madonna's right. I'm a material girl. Look at my bed, floor, or anything but the closet and you'll see a whole bunch of "materials" I'd like to call my wardrobe. My mom always asked me if a tornado hit the room. No mom, tornados don't do that, and how am I as destructive as a tornado? Life was so much easier when there was Sesame Street. Back then there were only cereal girls. Back then, I didn't have to iron my clothes in order to fix the wrinkles I subject them to in the first place. Talk about irony. Now is a different story. The iron and I are best friends (although he gets pretty steamed up once in a while).
I'd take Madonna's clothes over mine anyday. No, not her money, the actual clothes. Risque, yes. Pushing it over the Borderline, no. Madonna thinks you should Express Yourself. And so do I. Clothes express your mood more than anything. Jeans mean I want to be comfortable yet cute at the same time. Sweatpants can mean I will do/just did a sport. In my case, that's not an excuse, it means I-don't-give-a-sh*t. If you see me on a Friday night, that's the same thing. I dress up cute, girls get jealous (for reasons beyond me), call me a name, and I still don't-give-a-sh*t. Somebody get me some sweatpants.
If you see me wearing nice clothes, it's probably a rare occasion, although I I'm doing my best to fix that. With the salary I'm given from the Y (I change kids lives for four dollars an hour less than the people who staple papers all day), I need to be creative. Either that or I better do well in school to get a job that will boss those paper-staplers around. Maybe I can become some rich celebrity with a one-word name, like McLovin, Seal, or Madonna. But right now I'm just Marissa.
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