Ess and I went to the mall today, to a store that we used to frequent like it was the only store left on Earth but hadn't in a while because quality, in our minds, should ultimately defeat quantity.
It's such a ridiculously large store, with such variety of styles, that I expected to find at least one item I would like. But after ten minutes, I realized that what I used to call variety was more like every pattern, color, and ruffle known to man tossed in a cement mixer and splashed onto the thinnest and shiniest synthetic fabric.
We amused ourselves instead by finding the most hideous patterns in the massive sale section. One of them was so psychedelic, it could have been reproduced and sold as a a recreational drug.
The purple in the second row is, admittedly, not a pattern, but I had to include it because Ess wanted to buy that vest and turn it into a wig. Indeed, once she be-vested her head I had to agree the material would have been put to better use on Governor Swann in the 1700s equivalent of his disco years. The 1670s must have been a riot.
What's interesting is that some of the clothes were nauseating in person, but in the confines of a small square their patterns were totally palatable. The frame is just as important as the content, it seems.
Just imagine how much worse these are on an entire dress.
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