Let's get mad close.

I have a habit where I divulge very intimate things, very easily, and very quickly. Some people consider this an endearing trait, while others are often very put off by it. I can understand this. In fact, I tend to feel very bad about it, about making people so uncomfortable. But the truth remains that I find small talk exhausting and tedious. Moreover, it's my perspective that life is complicated, sticky, sometimes unpleasant, and to pretend otherwise—to try to veil it somehow, as if that will change anything—is rather pointless. Unnecessary, even. 

Fashion blogging can feel, at times, like small talk. There are defined aesthetics to meet, specific topics to discuss, and a very particular range of interests to appeal to. Like small talk, that style of blogging is difficult for me to indulge. And also like small talk, my inability to do so often makes me feel bad about myself. 

This past week I felt so especially bad about it, I nearly flushed everything—all of this, all of Strugglista—down the proverbial toilet. I didn't want to do it anymore. I didn't want to deal with any of it. Because I knew that no matter what I did, this venture would probably fail. 

Not just probably: probably most definitely. There's a ninety-nine percent chance all of this will go up in flames. If we're being honest, the odds are probably even lower than one. It's terrifying to think about. Strugglista is a demanding mistress, and although I love her, I love regular ol' Daniela, too, and I neglect her egregiously. And for what? For a less than one percent chance of success?

Yes.

My mother has said something to me every time I've wanted to give up on an idea: "The no is guaranteed, you have to work for the yes." It was something her father used to tell her. He was a brilliant ad man—Don Draper minus the booze, ladies, and overall douchebaggery—who was screwed over royally by people close to him more than once, but nevertheless, kept fighting and kicking to his last breath. Given what can be the cold and unwelcoming atmosphere of the fashion world, there's a good chance I'll be screwed over royally by people, and there's an even greater chance those people will be me. There is no one better at setting up sabotage than myself.

Sabotage, however, is looking different. Whereas it appears obvious that I can avoid self-sabotage by applying the format of a standard fashion blog to my own enterprise, that is beginning to seem like the quickest way to prime myself for it. In this case, sabotage is censorship. Censorship presents itself in many ways, and to avoid what interests me just so I can fit in, is one of them.

Fashion is more than where you can buy stuff, and what's trending in a season. It's how you feel, it's how you express yourself, it's a canvas for your thoughts and your life. That's what I try to do here. I don't know if it will work out. I wish I could tie all this up beautifully and neatly, in a way that lets both you and I know it will be okay, but I can't. I don't know if it'll be okay. All I know is that if I go down, I have to go down fighting and kicking: stars in my eyes, shit-eating grin and all.

Zara army jacket, velvet pants, suede heels, and eyelet top; Sandra Rubel silk and jeweled vintage vest; Vintage leather belt; Noir jewel earrings