banging on

this is a shit drawing to illustrate how shit I feel after a shit day trying to find one simple dress. HAHAHAHA HA.  Dress shops, dress designers, fashion buyers and dress shop assistants are all death-weasels and have ruined my day. All of them.

I’m curved.  I’m curvatious.  I’m curvy. And I have big boobs.  In the right dress I can look fucking amazing. I am not obese and do not need a mobility scooter to get around, but apparently I have to wear different looking clothes (e.g. why does H&M “Fat Bird” range have to look SO different from everything else, as does Adolfo Dominguez’s “Porker Fashion” line?) just because I have this chest and a minor fat arse problem and the ugliest legs ever?

I felt like standing on the doorstep of each clothes shop and shouting to the indifferent twits who staff them “I HAVE ENORMOUS TITS AND AM QUITE CURVY!  IS IT WORTH MY EVEN ENTERING YOUR ESTABLISHMENT?” to spare them the effort of asking if I wanted any help (yes, please, I’m looking for a simple dress, a bit formal, but nothing blingy, I have a large chest, as you can see and no, a high neckline is not an option, I don’t need a shelf to put my drink on) before having to admit that the cupboard was bare for this chested girl. It’s partly a Portugal thing – I’m still seen as tall by old ladies (I’m 5’6″) – and partly a stupid-international-fashion-people thing because they’re too stupid to design for anything other than tiny little skeleton people …. and by the way, I HATE all the fucking sparkles everything seems to have now. I hate sparkles like I hate bloody pixies etc.

I just wanted a simple, structured, below the knee, drop dead gorgeous little black number.

Instead I got an inferiority complex.