The Bunny Report: My Glasses, Myself

Hay y’all! After an extended post New York Fashion Week vaycay, I’ve returned to the charming village of Manhattan for the usual aimless fashion forward fraternizing. Howev, since the point of my reentrance, tragedy has already ensued in the form of my foot, mid dance-move, rhythmically stepping on my now permanently damaged glasses. Nerdy! I brought them to the eye doctor to see if surgery could save them. Outlook cloudy. (Oh, and I’ll have all naysayers know, though I am ever the proponent of functionless personal ornamentation, my eyewear has always served as a completely necessary fashion statement due to my retardedly bad old lady vision.)

As a result of such fatalities, I’ve had to switch out my injured staple spectacles -- the ubiquitously downtown Buddy Holly-style thick black framed glasses (reminiscent of none other than Drew Carey as my mother says, sick!) for these much more, um, “unique” frames I bought for a dollar somewhere in Asia a few years ago. The funny thing is, as ostentatious (re: totes cray) as some of my personal styling choices can be, I LOVED my timelessly banal other glasses. I mean, yeah, people seem to really dig these new specs (perhaps because they’re such a noticeable centerpiece to my “look” rather than a mere accent as I intended with the other frames). But these new ones are such massive MFs that they like, fall off my face not only when I’m dancing and stuff (which, as can be inferred from above, is often) -- but also whenever I move my head at all at any time EVER. Admittedly, I DO kind of like that, adorned in these face shielding frames, I could TOTALLY safely perform a quick lab experiment or get hit in the face with some sort of sporting good sans pain or ocular damage.

Alas, while I await a diagnosis on the future of my former lenses (my former SELF, really), I struggle to cope with the unwanted life changes brought about, yet again, by fierce moves on the dance floor.

Now & Then