Zara top; Cooperative skirt; Kelsi Dagger boots; Marc by Marc Jacobs watch necklace; charm necklace: Tiffany & Co. and vintage
I am on time as a habit, a trait passed down to me from my father along with my affinity for the San Francisco Giants and bands with killer horn sections (see post title). I am a college student, meaning that if there’s anything I can do better than construct meals from disparate items in my pantry and fridge, it is execute perfectly-timed naps between classes. I aim to meet busses and trains at the exact minute they are scheduled to arrive, I rarely know how much time is left in any given class period, and while I regularly pretend my forearm belongs to a bohemian person (dressing it elbow-deep in bangles and beads), I always have room for another accessory.
I should probably wear a watch. I meet all the prerequisites.
On the left, however, is the only timepiece I have to my name. A watchnecklace with M-A-R-C printed around its shrinkrayed apple face in lieu of numbers, its battery ceased to function sometime during the second Bush administration. I am ok with both of these things because a) watches in any form have never been my thing, too useful, and b) the only way I know how to tell time using the letters of Mr. Jacob's first name is backwards, fifteen minutes before a midterm, which is when I yell CRAM CRAM CRAM!!!!!!!!!!
Not sorry. Also feeling really good about this terrible chipped nail polish situation thats happening up there. So there's that.
All qualms about the state of my manicure aside, I broke out the watchnecklace today for a baby pop of color on the top half of this 'fit and I think it did the trick; altogether, I looked decidedly less Flava Flav and more breezy Minnie Mouse, which was just fine for playing with my new camera on Mount Diablo and pretending to be admiring the view instead of posing for pictures every time a biker dive-bombed past us down the slope.