I haven’t even left for New York but I hate it already. I already hate Luke’s Lobster, and its perfectly buttered brioche. I already hate the New Yorker Festival, and all the people I can’t wait to see. I already hate NYCC, and the prints that will be rolled up in my poster tube on the way home. I already hate Forbidden Planet, I already hate the subway, I already hate Williamsburg, I already hate the clothes I’d had bought and made and mentally set aside. I hate Glossier and Sephora and Charlotte Tilsbury and the Carole King musical and Chanel slingbacks and walking a thousand blocks at night drunk and wishing I were holding your hand the whole time.

I will hate forgetting you, and remembering you, and not knowing which one to do each time. I will hate the time difference, and how you won’t reply to any of my messages, and seeing what I changed your name to on my phone. I will hate every kitten I see, and every child with thick rimmed glasses.

I hate New York. I can’t wait to leave it already.



The first warning sign should’ve been when I began to tbink that the intense, massive love I’d always imagined wasn’t real. I guess I just didn’t want to admit that I’d made a mistake all along.

I believed in forever at one point. But there’s really nothing left to say other than that I don’t anymore.


Sweeping generalizations on the difference between fashion and shopping

A lot of people always think I’m a fashion girl— abreast of all the latest trends, nodding in agreement when a “new” look is declared to have “returned,” constantly side-eyeing those who have the audacity and ignorance to wear Cèline when clearly we are over Cèline and it is now all about independent London-based designers and their instinctively frayed denim. Plus, I work for an international fashion title. That fact can’t hurt.

But I’m not a fashion girl. My knowledge on trends has always edged very close to zero, even when I first began working for L’Officiel Manila. I could write more for our lifestyle section than our fashion pages—and it’s pretty evident on LOfficielManila.com, which I’m Online Editor of, that I have a stronger hold on the former. Because the very real truth is, I don’t care. I don’t care if something is “next season,” or “of the moment,” or “straight off the runway.” There are people who I do; I’m just not one of them. I mean, they’re clothes.

Which brings me to another very real truth: I’m a shopping girl. I learned about Vetements because pieces slowly started making their way onto SSENSE, and I loved their much-too-long sleeves with cuffs past the fingertips because that’s exactly how I liked wearing my shirts. I know what designers’ signature elements are because they’re the ones that are figured most strongly on a product page. I can spot a Rachel Comey Legion pant versus her Brunswick one in real life because I’ve read the product descriptions again and again trying to figure out which one would suit me best. Whatever knowledge I have gained and accumulated of fashion is, really, from a consumerist approach. Which I suppose is why I still get as much pleasure from a silk Marni coat dress I got at 70% off on Totokaelo as the panda socks I picked up from a bazaar three years ago. (In fact, I’m wearing them both right now, as I write this.)

And why not? Fashion is not art, no matter how many collaborations are forged in the visceral depths of Fondazione Prada. From where I stand, fashion is a business. A multimillion dollar one, as is oft repeated, that everyone on some level participates in. If we’re speaking on terms of supply and demand, the economies of fashion are explosive.

That includes, of course, fashion magazines. No matter how beautiful it is, a magazine is generated by both creative desire and ad revenue. I see retail websites as an extremist form of a fashion magazine—a higher level of curation without the subtlety. Magazines will always have the advantage of narration and the power of inspiration, but they will also always tell you something is luxurious and beautiful and in season. With retail websites, it will already be luxurious and beautiful and in season, so you’ll have to do the thinking for yourself.

I feel that people always forget that despite what the editors and elite say, fashion is a democracy—there are just people who are more well-informed. Whenever people tell me they can’t write fashion or they don’t know anything about it, I always wonder how, then, did they get dressed this morning?

And: how the hell did I land this job?

Photography, Singular Adventures

The eye

I read before that someone takes your photograph the way they see you. I’m inclined to believe that’s true.

Olympus Stylus, 35mm, Lucky 200

Photography, Singular Adventures


I rarely have people in my photos, so this was interesting for me. I learned:
(1) People never do what you tell them to;
(2) The selfie has become a reflex; and
(3) The photos may not be amazing but the weekend was.

Olympus Stylus, 35mm

For Better or Worse

2AM drunk dialling

I think about London the way other people drunk-dial their exes at 2AM– it’s always there, at the back of my mind. I don’t have anything to say, but it’s familiar, and I liked my then more than my right now, whatever that right now may be.

“Right now” for me is unable to sleep at 2AM with a painful head cold, a fever about to pounce the second my respiratory system decides to take a lunch break, and my mother yapping on and on about things I forget about the next second later. It is hell. And ironically enough, it is more hellish than the time I did actually get sick in London, because– idiot– I left the window open at night and I caught a draft. I was stuck in bed, Googling which of the medicine I brought from home would work at that exact moment. I was hungry, and there was no food in my tiny flat– just the yogurt I’d have for breakfast everyday, and water. I did realize that at one point I’d have to go out and buy rations in case it would become a long, hard suffering, so the second I felt a tiny bit better, I stepped out to hit the nearest grocery.

But the second my foot hit the pavement, I was fine. My head cleared, and I breathed in fresh air (well, as fresh as cold stale air can be). I chose to leave London because– truthfully, really– there was nothing there for me, but it’s still the ex I think about at 2AM, when the lights are dim, and my eyes are tired, and nothing around me is of interest. It’s that usual feeling that I think I’m destined for something greater elsewhere, but I’ve been elsewhere, even just for a little while, and it doesn’t feel better than here.


The virgin suicides


I don’t know about most people, but I put a premium on virginity. Not necessarily the sexual kind– it goes for anything. I’ve never thought inexperience was a handicap; in fact, I always appreciate fresh eyes, and I prefer that those eyes be mine. I guess it’s the unjadedness– when you feel something for the first time, you’ll never feel it again as much as you did the first. I thought Nick Hornby said it best, but maybe it was Cat Stevens after all: the first cut is the deepest.

And I suppose the problem comes with every there time after that. The second time, the third time, the fourth, the fifth… None of them beat the unexpectedness of the new. I used to be so afraid of running out of new things to experience, but at twenty-three, it’s not so much about experiencing the newest. Appallingly, the problem seems to be as not being perceived as new– basically, as old. It’s the point where people take things for granted, like the pain of getting your hair bleached then dyed green. And  then of course there’s the fact hat we’re no longer new. And I don’t know to do that.