Standing still at an intersection, I could only sense the traffic rush blocking my blood flow. The greater was the movement outside, the deeper felt the stillness of heart. Outside my body, everything moved: Madonna was desperately seeking Susan, Marilyn craved for a father figure, and Sarah Fergusson was packing plastic at Harrods’s jewellery department. I, at 9pm Madrid time, wasn’t quite sure of where I was and felt like the only way out of hyperventilation was standing still on my Prada shoes as if they were a polished leather panic room.

They weren’t.

Time went by without an answer. As cars and lights flood my perception, I would gently give in to the cosmic silence. It’s impossible to scrutinize the chaos. Egodystonic happens whenever your mind debates between living and trying to figure out the reasons by which we live. Word of advice: do not go there. While rational thought seems to profit human action, too much of such happens to be no good. A biased gift. An evil curse. If the world is a hot mess, I’m the last standing sharp dresser relentlessly resisting to nonchalance.

People stopped questioning by the age of four. Since then, they played by the book or by the Vogue. Any which way, people have been played. Like ants, building successful trails, reinforcing better routes and gradually finding the best path into the money making business, humans make their living while secreting some sexpheromones on the way.

Tons of millions and billions of dollars versus My bank account. Blond twinks versus Famished Ethiopians. Jack the Ripper versus Julian Assange. Amanda Lepore versus Wittgenstein. PETA versus Cruella de Ville Hermes ostrich fetus Birkin bag. And finally, My own thoughts against Lady Gaga’s Monster Ball stamped chaos. There. I typed enough paradoxical conflicts to steam worldwide mass hysteria, or at least to feed my tense-afraid type procrastinator habits for a month. Still, I can’t help it but wonder: why is everything so senseless? And furthermore, why is the state of senseless building up our own skank colony for centuries?

Hegel said dialectic movement between contradictory elements build up reality. I say, if travertine marble condos with walking closets stocked with 24k gold bars are balancing against trailer parks, I want out. It’s not even funny. Everything is unbalanced: and although ants seem quite at ease with that, I’m not, and I want it changed.
Résistance is futile, but intelligence isn’t.

Our rational skills were shrunk to their basic span of action by a group of social constraints called consumer induced expectations, which demand a cascade of franking multiplying insects focused on minding their own business while meeting Queen Bee’s criteria annual revenue. For every starving midget, there’s a sugary replenish cake. No one’s deeply hurt: so no one’s deeply bothered.

I guess giving up on ideals to cupcakes wasn’t such a good move. Now all that’s left to youth is designer bags and pink frosting. Labour day was discreetly replaced by fashion night out. Who needs celebrating the (filmy) conquering of the subordinated class over its subordinators when you can channel a style rookie celebration at Haus-die-Wintour? Forget the Sian or the Promised Land, we want Bond Street. Behold the Kaiser: I pull the trigger.

Take it as friendly fire. Yes, I do think fashion and dandy are great embellishment to one’s life, but I also happen to think that Luisa Casati time is over, leaving us with greater tasks than dog-walking tigers with emerald necklaces for the sake of being a living work of debit.

It’s time to use your brain or whatever is left after that peroxide blond bleach impromptu. As our great Karl put it, history is what you’re willing to make of it. And yes, I’m quoting Marx not Lagerfeld. So, tomorrow leave the house with a backup plan for your boots. Yes, they do look amazing, and yes, they’re probably on the short list of things that Lindsay Lohan might actually care for; either way, one could do more than walking.
You can change the road.