Fashionista...

You paint the red rings on the paper and tack it to your forehead, when there are too many holes in it you just rip it off, and make a new one. You walk around with a limitless supply of ammunition, just handing it out to people, then walk away so they can blast your entire body with it. You are a human target and you don't even realize it.
People that walk around in a full Ed Hardy outfit don't look in the mirror before they go out and think to themselves "everyone is going to call me a fucking douchebag behind my back tonight!" They look in the mirror and say "I am the fucking shit buddy dude!" Girls that leave the house in their muffin topped sparkled shitshirts, cramming cankles into high heeled open toed refugee boats so the toes look like they are trying to win the ufc championship belt leave the house thinking they are going to be the hottest girl in the club. You would think these people might have some real friends that tell them what they REALLY look like, and not what they perceive themselves to be, but the sad fact is, that water seeks it's own level most of the time, so the friends are just as, if not more clueless than the target itself.
I have been the target before. Nothing as brutal as Ed hardy, just the occasional mullet with an earring, or a colored wifebeater that might have been a little to tight for my torso. Just rolling with the times, in the area I was placed in at the moment. A victim of my surroundings so to speak. I heard a promoter at one of the clubs we were playing a few weeks ago, the conversation of "Affliction" or one of those shitty clothing companies came up and he said something to the affect of, "I hate when something cool comes out and then douchebags ruin for everyone." That had to be one of the douchiest statements I have ever heard in my life. In turn making him the biggest douchebag ever.
Don't get me wrong, it is VERY necessary to have these people around your life at all times. Not IN your life, but AROUND it. Unfortunately everyone has the half slow cousin that was diddled as a child or the mid-life crisis-ed uncle that just divorced your aunt after 30 years of marriage, that will show up on Easter with some bedazzled buffoonery ripping across their chest, or settling nicely on the back pockets of some sweet boot-cut denims. Those are exceptions that must be dealt with gently, only to be laughed about after they have left with the normal part of your family. The rest of those fuckwads that aren't related to you however, deserve absolutely no sympathy, and must be told that their sense of style should be thrown in the east river along with the scent of their heavily burdened vaginas.
I am lucky to have just been a t-shirt and jeans type of guy for most of my life, there was that brief stint in jr. high where I walked around thinking I was Turbo from Breakin'2 "Electric Boogaloo," and I had my Mom dye a blonde strip on each side of my head, reaching all the way back to a flippy piece of hair that we used to call a "tail." I secretly listened to Twisted Sister in my room, but walked around school in parachute pants and a dangling earring. Black parachute pants to be exact, that when you pulled the zippers down on the side it was bright red inside. I walked around with one glove and a big square piece of cardboard, and I couldn't even breakdance.... Every ten years or so I will look at pictures of myself from the decade prior and be like "what the fuck was I thinking?" Having no fucking clue that I would be thinking that in ten years.
So what the fuck... ten years from now am I going to look at a picture of myself in what I am wearin g right now and be like "what the fuck was I thinking?" Fuck this.....