Cue the emo music, don the black garments, and break out the hankies. My darling Alison got booted off Project Runway. What can I say but :-o and :-( and whatever the heck the emoticon is for "white-knuckled angst and hair-tugging trauma." This is the saddest I've ever been about a reality show elimination since... umm... well, yesterday. Fate is unkind. My life is a Shakespearean tragedy, or a calamitous opera, or one of those really really really sad movies where some sweet, lovely, innocent character succumbs to a long, slow, undeserving demise.
My poor, poor Alison. Ok, admittedly her dress was a LITTLE bit fugly, but so was Vincent's, and he's nowhere near as talented (or pretty). I heard the tom-tom drums of doom the minute the judges said, "She [Alison's model] looks like a plus-size model." Ouch. She committed the cardinal sin of fashion: making a super-skinny model look... erm... 'large' (I refuse to use the f-word, i.e. "f*t" because it's size-ist and discriminates against us pleasingly plump people - we, the generously endowed).
But still, [arms flailing in despair] I'm in shock and denial and all the other 5 stages of grief simultaneously. I'm a one-man mass hysteria, barely able to type the next word for my jittery fingers, nor see the computer screen through a torrent of tears. Good mourning, New Zealand. I'm desperately unhappy and am going to scratch myself all over and commit other senseless acts of self-mutilation coz that's what deeply disturbed folks do. Boo.
My poor, poor Alison. Ok, admittedly her dress was a LITTLE bit fugly, but so was Vincent's, and he's nowhere near as talented (or pretty). I heard the tom-tom drums of doom the minute the judges said, "She [Alison's model] looks like a plus-size model." Ouch. She committed the cardinal sin of fashion: making a super-skinny model look... erm... 'large' (I refuse to use the f-word, i.e. "f*t" because it's size-ist and discriminates against us pleasingly plump people - we, the generously endowed).
But still, [arms flailing in despair] I'm in shock and denial and all the other 5 stages of grief simultaneously. I'm a one-man mass hysteria, barely able to type the next word for my jittery fingers, nor see the computer screen through a torrent of tears. Good mourning, New Zealand. I'm desperately unhappy and am going to scratch myself all over and commit other senseless acts of self-mutilation coz that's what deeply disturbed folks do. Boo.
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