Lazy day requirements called only for jeans. 

Lace camisole, F21. Jeans, Guess.  Heels, vintage.

The house is still apart from the bolshie Chihuahuas larking about, and the day is positively gorgeous in that imminent Autumn-harvest sort of way.  In my early morning musings, I confess the day ahead of me is inexplicably demanding… one wonders the necessity to seethe amusingly before attempting what bargains it way towards impossible.  Operation ‘whiskey tango foxtrot’… well, okay not so much, but you get the kissy jest. 

So much writing, so little time.  But oh, the storytelling yet to be had. 

(Short laugh)

I’ve been spending an ample amount of time lolling around thrift shops and vintage (-y) couture boutiques, which of course isn’t out of the ordinary–excluding the sprain of my wallet’s existence as it scoffs at me from the unbounded realms of a near-relic Prada handbag, instructing me to slooow down a bit.  Admittedly, the groupie-esque appearance I emit into the universe of unwanted treasures waiting to find a best friend and home is rather off-putting.  But to forsake the antiquity of such gloriouis finds almost seems sacrilegious.   And we can’t have that now can we? Ponder, ponder.

What’s that?  I think a photo documentary hour is calling…