1.14.2013

265 - Versace Cat Pants

Pants - vintage Versace (a gift from my perfect friend Ceilidh), Perfect Basic Nude Crop Top - c/o O'Mighty, Shoes - thrifted (a brand called WILD DIVA...because yes)

Sometimes, life rewards us with the company of excellent people, like my good friend Ceilidh Benoit. I met Ceilidh over ten years ago, when she was a teenaged punk kid who made weird art and wore her blonde hair in liberty spikes. Suburban disenchantment and a shared sense of self-reliance and determination seemed to spiritually bind us. Now, she lives a couple of blocks away from me here in LA's Ktown. Despite our proximity, we don't see each other nearly as much as I'd like. However, no matter how long we go without seeing each other, I feel that I can always pick up the phone to invite her over to do nothing, or that I can always really be myself around her (even when I'm grumpy and not that talkative), or that she is always a constant presence in my life  (even with months of no communication) just from the sheer power of her Ceilidh-ness.

One day, Ceilidh happend to call me while I was having a nervous breakdown (I have an overwhelming anxiety disorder and am prone to complete anxious self-destruction from time to time, probably because of genetically-modified foods or chem trails or the government poisoning the water supply or the Aztec calendar or ancient aliens or some shit like that). I yelled a few panicked sentences at her about life collapsing around me and being broke and directionless in life and having never left the country and what the fuck is up with that and sure it's all a privileged breakdown anyway which makes me an even shittier person right, and then I hung up to hyperventilate into a bag while staring my portly dachshund Mo-dog squarely in the eye, trying desperately to absorb the power of her positivity and blissful appreciation of life.

Twenty minutes later, I heard a knock at my apartment door, but when I opened it, I found only an empty hallway. I had been doorbell-ditched. And when I looked down at my feet, there was a beautifully-wrapped gift from none other than Ceilidh. Tears streaming down my face, hair wrapped up into a rat's nest, sweatpants stained with salsa, I snatched the little gift up and retreated back into my apartment like a feral rodent frightened by the outside world. I tried to open the pretty little package delicately, but in addition to having filthy and bitten down nails, my fingers are also clumsy. I ripped through the tissue with all of the grace of a water buffalo to find a pair of vintage Versace pants with cats printed allover them, and a note from Ceilidh assuring me that everything would be okay.

And for just that moment, everything was okay. Everything was more than okay -- it was perfect. Because cat pants. And Ceilidh. And Koreatown. And dachshunds.

But mostly cat pants.