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It's not often an entire collection gets me randy, but this season, Marc Jacobs did just that. The SS17 collection is so amazing that I would be willing to do just about anything to get my hands on it. To prove just how desperate I am, I made a list stating all the drastic measures I am about to take for a gander at the collection. 

• Delete my Instagram account
• Get on Tinder
• Go on a Tinder date
• Marry my Tinder date
• Have a baby
• Get a divorce because we were never in love in the first place
• Go to the DMV to get my license because we moved out of the city to raise this baby and he drove everywhere. Now I'm a single woman and I need a new licenses since I let mine expire 2 years ago
• Wait 6 hours in the DMV line and realize I need to be back in the city again
• Try to get an apartment in the city
• Settle for being a roommate in my 30s with a baby and decide to pursue my career in fashion all over again
• Have no luck getting back into fashion because I'm now old and the new wave of photographers and stylists are all sophomores in high school
• Re-open my Instagram account and have to gain followers all over again but at this time, everyone needs 20 million plus followers to be relevant
• Finally get the Marc Jacobs SS17 collection after Marc hears about my struggles to get my hands on it
• Marc shows his FW21 collection and it's so good that I literally wasted the last 4 years of my life


Every summer a fashion publication produces an athletic editorial. And for those 30 seconds it takes to thumb through those pages you think, "I would look cute in that IF I worked out". I get it - I do the same thing. Well, this summer is no exception! This summer I, Fausti Rose, bring you an athletic story! And the 0.5 seconds it takes you to overlook and decide not to read this story is all I need to think, "wow! If only I worked out instead of taking these photos I would be 90 pounds by now!" Or "welp, there goes 1 hour of core strength used to hold this pose for nothing". What ever, I'm going on with my day whether you read this or not because I have a party to attend.

I put the invisible metrics of my website behind me and packed a KIND Bar in my bag and made my way to the event. If I was going to be lazy about working out, I was at least going to eat like a champ while out. I made it to the event an hour late but that was fine because food was being passed around by some pretty model boy. I chased him down and ate the entire plate. I didn't stop there, I ate him too. The chase and and all the eating made me work up an appetite, so I walked over to a group of friends talking near the entrance of food and strike up conversation. I wondered if they knew I was using them to not look desperate for food.I stayed at the event until I ate everything in sight. I ate so much I couldn't fit my body or embarrassment into a cab. In the 45 minutes it took me to hail a cab to find this out, all the helicopters were out of service for the night. I sat there wondering how I was ever going to get home and the only thing that came to mind was how bad I need to work out if I'm going to continue this until I play out my 20s.


It was a tiresome day of flouncing from fashion show to show and missing a party was unthinkable. The fashion week party: the only way to see if your life is truly worth living. Remember how Cinderella met Prince Charming at the ball? That is the importance of the after party. Rented spaces in chic clubs surrounded by only the best fakers the industry has to offer. He may look legit and have a great business card but, chances are, he tagged along with someone he made friends with at Blue Bottle that same day when he grabbed the wrong coffee.

There was no way I was going to miss this event over a mere mortal issue of sleepiness. So, like any twenty-something, I veiled my eyes and outlined my lips and hop/skipped away to meet my rendition of Prince Charming. I was hopeful, as hopeful as I was when I bought shoes a size too small with plans on actually wearing them (which I was, right now). Needless to say, the hop and skip turned into a limp and drag to the front door. I was greeted by a PR intern who took her job too seriously. She glanced me over and said, "we're at capacity." Distraught, I moaned "but the party started thirty minutes ago…". She looked me over and, in a snippy voice, chimed "well maybe if you decided to use lotion we wouldn't be having this conversation."

Fuck! I never use lotion!

I stomped around begging for guidance to enter the party I was not polished enough for. In the midst of my temper tantrum, a rustle in the dark alley caught my attention. I directed my vision towards the sound and... bam! Out emerged Russell Simmons. He came to me, godly almost. He reached his hand out towards my face and claimed he could help me into the party. And, just like that, I was at the bar, red velvet vodka in hand. Repulsive drinks were just the small price one had to pay to be where I was standing, but not me. I turned to the bartender and said "what do I have to do for a normal drink here?"

Needless to say, I sold half my soul for Tito's that night.


The Moon is at high point and the fog kicks in while a black crow caws in the distance. This is how I make my entrance at a party. Only the mist is fifty percent glitter and thirty percent tears from angels. All of this is accurate, except for the fact that I don't party. I know, I know, you are reading this like, "What do you mean Fausti? You said this is how you enter a party!?" And I'm like, "What ever, I don't have to tell you all my business".

It's December and I get invited to about seventy events a night on Facebook, to which I respond with a hearty, female "maybe". That means I have absolutely no intent on going to them because who can go to all seventy in one night? I'm not Santa Claus! That is where my pants come into play. The most powerful pants in all the land. The pants that evaporate your body into thin air, magically transporting you to any party and placing you at the entrance, past the doorman. In the center of a mist, made of glitter and tears, you stand, party pants in tow. The clouded fog, so powerful, distorts the vision of all the partygoers. They will wonder, while sipping sponosored alochol, where their vision went. By the time the cloud diminishes, everyone's vision is fully restored and you are nowhere to be found. Probably because your magic pants are fragile as hell and got stuck on the corner of a door, leaving you naked from the waist down, therefore, canceling out the magical properties of the party pants.


For 30 days in October, people tell me how great my Cruella or Lady Gaga costume is while giving me a thumbs up. I'm not going to lie: their words are hurtful. The mockery I face in my day to day life during the most festive of months is damaging to my confidence. I could be having so much fun this month but, instead, I'm dealing with this. So I am making this the year of change. For 30 days I will dress as all of you.

I'm starting with you, Brooklyn. I'm going to take the L all the way to Bedford. I'm going to emerge out of the subway with coconut oil on my face and kombucha in hand. I'm going to walk into the nearest bodega and, in the most passive aggressive tone, ask "is there sodium in this cured seitan?" They will look at me and say, "it IS cured," and I'm going to get offended because they CLEARLY don't understand that I was asking for the pure humanity of seitan! I will throw a fit internally and walk out while my last words "I'll spend my money elsewhere" linger in the air. Now THEY will be offended.

I will walk out of the bodega and grab the first 60 people I see in flannel and we will begin a social media movement for seitan rights. We will create a snarky hashtag within minutes and someone with 600k Instagram followers will post a still life photo of seitan on pale pink paper with the hashtag to spread awareness. Together we create a new Instagram account with our purpose in the bio and all the photos will be of the vegan protein in official landmarks throughout NYC in an artistic way. All 61 of us will monitor this page and the followers will accumulate fast. After 3 days we will have gained 61k followers and I will laugh and say "all this over some weird vegan food" and they will all catch on that I was never authentic and accuse me of cultural appropriation. I will never go to Brooklyn again.


In a whirling flash, the 90s revist washed away and was replaced with the 70s. This was a great time for fashion - so in pure excitement, I threw on my disco dress and curled my lashes. The sweet, sweet sound of funk pulsated through my walls -prepping me for pounding the city streets. Once ready, I emerged from my apartment through a thick cloud of hairspray. I WAS a walking disco.

My mule heels took me all the way to soho in cushioned comfort. I was riding high and it was probably from all the hair spray fumes. Nothing could break the feeling… Except for the sight of the downtown "cool kids". They were all dressed like outcast from the Brady Bunch remake, directed by Baz Lihrmann, obvi. Every girl sporting a choker last week moseyed her way to high rise bell bottoms and peasant tops and every hipster remained in jeans and lumberjack shirts. The hipsters were clearly confused with the cultural movement, which came to a bit of shock since they were birthed from the hippie 40 years prior.

I stopped dead in my tracks, glanced up at the sky and screamed, "this is not the 70s I asked for!!!!!" The entire city spun around, and I found myself back in my apartment. I hurled myself into bed in full preteen tantrum glory and wept myself to sleep. I figured it best to disco nap my way through this reincarnated decade until the next regurgitated era was upon us.


My job for Snickers has its advantages. For starters, the pay is great! Did you know I am the top paid employee in the chocolate business?

That's right, you didn't know, because all you care about is Chocolate. I'll have you know, Chocolate is nothing without me. Which brings me to the disadvantages.

Chocolate and I met in a support group one early June. We were both there to put an end to our sweetness and passive disposition in order to please everyone around us. It was a difficult experience due to the late night calls of despair to one another. Chocolate would call me when he was on the verge of saying yes to something he didn't want to do, which often left him in sticky situations fulfilling outlandish fantasies. And I would call him when I had the sudden urge to comment something positive on a YouTube video.

Our relationship flourished through the hardships. Weeks became months and months became years when finally, we decided to take our relationship to the next level. We have helped each other overcome our downfalls and found ourselves in sweet bliss with one another. But as all good things come to an end, so did our bond when Peanuts came around.

Yea.... She was young, blonde, and crunchy with a slight saltiness. She was irresistible with Chocolate and he couldn't stay away from her, or apart from me. We decided to entangle our romance to a unison of three. The world loved us together: Chocolate, Caramel, and Peanuts. Which lead us to an exclusive contract with Snickers. But the strain of the public's demands and sharing Chocolate was solidifying to my being. Always in the public eye performing caused strenuous fights between us. And after years of trying to make the situation work, we decided to end our romance and stay out of the tabloids for awhile.

Several months later, my agent through Snickers called me in for a meeting causing me to leave the solitude of my own home for the first time since the breakup. I enter his office to find Chocolate and Peanuts already seated at the table. "The people want you back together again", said my agent, "and I don't care what you need to do, but you gotta give the public what they want". We all complained and moaned, backs facing one another, and signed the agreement to continue working together. The relationship caused me the most stress as no one enjoys Carmel alone, so disadvantages become advantages causing me the higher percentage of income between the three.


Inspiration has always been second nature to me with daydreaming being no exception. That is why I am leaving the blogging world to give guided tours through your subconscious mind. Let's face it, blogging is dumb and everyone has one. Seriously, how much longer are you going to ignore me?

Which brings me to the heart of this advertisement - are you sick and tired of your lack luster life? Have you looked at one too many coffee photos and need a break? Then call within the next 8 weeks for this limited time offer.

Allow me to walk you into your subconscious. Create mysterious projections and feed off the energy of your enlightened mind. Conjure up a glorious mind fuck that will leave you confused. Let me poetically describe, while remaining politically correct, exactly what your dreams mean. You've got nothing to lose, but yourself!

Act now, this offer won't last long. I guarantee you will leave my guided tour 100% refreshed with inspiration, or your money back. *

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