time warp

I recently came across the glorious frenzy of flea market shopping. It was a rather small, suburban one in which older people go to sell all their weird possessions their husband can’t see them wearing anymore or is just old and weird. That is usually the style I seem to opt for so me and the old lady’s always seem to establish a magical bond on these events.

Since I got quite sick the past week, where I made big promises for this blog to become somewhat more than its superficial surface (oops) I really tried to cover up my red nose and go without feeling like dying for a solid 10 minutes to shoot this lookbook ( I know you guys all couldn’t live without) .

Everything is either vintage or my actual grandma’s except for the shoes, those are Doc Martens.









isn’t it rather pointless?

Audrey’s dance is playing in the background and I salute to everyone who knows what I am referring to fellow black lodgers.

I write to you because I’ve been in a weird mindset these days. The past month I’ve spent studying for my end of term exams for uni. I dedicated all my time to it and hence cut back on social inquiries or just what other people would call ‘life’ in general. Every time I am stuck in that automatic mode of just doing, blacking everything else out I seem to fall into a deep self dug hole of nothingness once exams are over and time is available to be spend in freedom.

It seems silly and a little sad to be calling one out as being overwhelmed by time and possibility up to a point where you just sit and stare and do nothing. Yet this seems to be the exact thing happening to me. I am asking myself, well what is it that is missing, what is it that differs life from existence?!


Am I not alive sitting at home reading, telling my dog one too many times he’s the absolute cutest? Or is it rather that person sitting in their city apartment planning another night out in a sparkly attire and loop earrings?

When do you exist and when do you start living? It’s a phony and rather childish request but still it’s present.

I’ve been offered a job recently and I took it just to turn it down startled by fear of failure and misery. It really hurled me back in time making me realize I really wasn’t over so many things I thought by now I should be. It’s rather embarrassing to post this on the internet but I just want to be honest with whomever on here (hi!). By now I am still too upset to pull wise words out of this incident.

Today I’ve spent almost the entire day reading ” Amityville Horror”, which satisfies my need of 70s horror stories just right. It may keep me occupied enough for a while, occupied enough to not have to face what’s really bugging me. Isn’t it rather pointless telling you all this? I have a few ideas for this blog which I will try working on in the following weeks…until then the crisp air of Amityville will keep me busy.

i’m not physically naked in this

I would like to see myself driving, driving …just the mode of being in motion, the mode of having things around you seem like a big swirled homogenous something.

In my mind some vintage sounding song is playing. A man strumming his guitar just having a good old soliloquy in form of music. Maybe Joni Mitchel is the man I’m thinking of here…it’s close enough.


I had a run last week, it was already 9 o’clock, a time I usually spent seated in my own comfort zone watching Grey’s Anatomy ( still hasn’t turned sour to me – note to future self, in retrospective it all looks way nastier than it felt like in the moment). The sun was setting. My dog, who had to be forced out of his basket (cause bad habits align) had to be dragged behind me on his leash. I had a run with him, of course he won, he always does, sat on the bench and watched the sunset whilst eating an apple I just picked from the apple tree nearby. I petted his head.

I was looking down onto my hometown. From way up there one can see the house I grew up in. I like to think back on the times I hustled around in a naive, carefree frenzy during this time of the year, when spending the day lying in a field of gras was the most satisfying feeling I could think of.


The past few weeks I’ve spent studying for my upcoming exams. I feel blessed and grateful everyday when I look at my anatomy poster thinking about just how miraculously this body of ours is set up and composed. I’m fascinated by the human brain, its power, its endless depth, its mystery, its magic.

Today I’ve learned that Oxytocin, synthesized by n. supraopticus and n. paraventriclaris in the hypothalamus is being transmitted during sex equally in women and men, leading the both of them to connect, amalgamate with one another. Yet no equal feelings in consequence.

It all boils down to chemistry.

Evolutionary Theory suggest men tend to polygamy because it increases their chances of personal fitness ( which is all about distributing as many genes to a next generation as possible), they cheat on you, because they can’t help it. Women need to find a loyal man, cause their chances of getting pregnant are limited and they need someone who stays in order to help with the children.


It all seems to make sense at least in little ways. Of course there are many more opposing theories to all this, and many more factors play a determining role, but isn’t it comforting to have easy explanations at hand such as these?!

At this point I frankly have no clue why I’m telling you all about this. I should have written all this into a diary, but somehow this felt right.

I’m grateful for all I have. I am grateful for all that life gives me, even though I act so selfish and unfair and probably don’t deserve any of this. In the end, when everything seems so highly complicated, twisted and tangled, there is an explanation to this if you look closely enough. And that in itself is comforting.


an average fashion blog post

As for my current state of mind, it’s wandering. My sense of fashion isn’t really existent at the moment and to be frank, fashion doesn’t bother me much these days (which might be due to the fact that i’m absolutely , terrifyingly broke).

These days I mostly spent my time trying to make believe.

Trying to make believe in terms of cultural heritage, human relations, my emotions and feelings, my actual life. I spare you all the endless and ongoing monologue of me rambling about the lost cause of love in modern age (which I simply refuse to believe is a lost cause).

Instead I’ll indulge in the pleasure of filling this utterly ‘unexciting, superficial, unimportant’ fashion blog with great excitement. Its phoniness and utter uselessness is what made me start one in the first place. Isn’t it nice to have a place where nobody actually even tries to make a point, just ramble, just let all the pretty stimuli drizzle into your brain…?! Fashion can be so much more than that obviously but as I already told you, it’s not for me currently.

So let’s start this picture show you guys came to scroll down on in the first place. Here I’ll basically just post all the input I’ve been saving on my desktop lately. Clothing ideas I am into whenever I feel like dressing up once in a while.

#1 The effortless french person from the 70s and beyonde8cdc509b69efe4f33898f032aff1e09--jane-birkin-style-fashion-hair



#2 Touch me I’m sick




#3 mono



#4 o v e r


leider geil

#5 i don’t know how to call this anymore so I’ll just type these words so it doesn’t look like  i am an idiot




mon coer est fou


Last week i had a  particularly strange and ultimately dramatic encounter between Brigitte Bardot, Francoise Hardy or Catherine Denevue and myself.

I cried lying in someone else’s bed. Then I cried in this persons bathtub. It wouldn’t stop. It just happened. It just occurred out of nowhere. This “I’m sad and bored”, this existential lust for love, this ungraspable feeling of lack and longing for more, more, more known from old french films.

This moment reminded me of the bathtub scene in “Le Mémpris”  with Brigitte Bardot. Her whole attitude, her sudden change of mind, her sudden dissatisfaction to real world love and limited access to her “homme ideal”…

Of course it’s been a rediculous attitude of mine and i am totally aware of its cinematic, inauthentic nature, but it just hit heart that night and I’m sure most of us get lost in this hopeless process of hiding away in ideals and illusions from time to time. So this Lookbook is intended to be an homage to those french lovesick girls or just a recollection of my current day to day garment choice.

…with a feeling of wanting more ,  more,  more   in the air …


tenue une:


s k i r t: zara

b l o u s e: flea marcet

s c h o e s: Pleaser

tenue deux:





s k i r t: Zara

s h i r t: idk stolen from my grandma

c h o k e r: gift ribbon

s h o e s: Pleaser

b a g: flea marcet Buffalo

tenue trois:




s h i r t: zara

s k i r t: American Apparel

s h o e s: Asos

tenue quatre:



t o p: vintage out of my mom’s closet

s k i r t: vintage and authentically bought in paris last year

same shoes and choker

Meredith Grey started knitting

I’ve recently fell into a deep hole of spending each and every night in my *not sexy* pajamas, eating ice-cream, watching Grey’s Anatomy, periodically crying for one of those too-nice-and-unreal-to-actually-exist-men on the show (George anyone?!) or hating on the actual main character. I am not pleading on watching this show, although it’s great in a low-key sad way. I’m just saying it’s more than what meets the eye, although organs brains and scalpels really do hit your eye quite often.

It seems as though each and every character is somehow struggling with their own version of feelings rejected by someone très special to them. Each of them is trying their own way of growing out of these old habits of dreaming about someone they may never bound to be with, yet dream about at the very last. One is cutting his hair in a ridiculous way, the other decides to fully ignore the other, dellusionally denying they  are only fooling themselves, and then there is Meredith who started knitting a sweater in order to keep her thoughts on men she can’t have from cursing her mind.

My very own method in addition to Meredith’s very clever approach would be: Look ridiculous…aka …fabulous!

Knitting is a good start actually, but I’ve discovered that the most comforting and confident way to get away from being objectified and looked at as a female in a pretty mini skirt is a) of course owning it and b) just doing the exact opposite from what’s being considered female by taking away shape.

This is not meant to sound like women need to hide their bodies in order to feel safe at all. It’s just, sometimes one doesn’t want to look like that pretty girl guys are looking at just cause she has a nice bum or any type of female attribute for the most part. So this look attempts to be a tiny revolt against the ideal female look but still includes feminine features. Each item could be dressed up individual, but as a whole they create this no-i-actually-didn’t-give-a-fuck-about-how-to-look-ominously-pretty-today.

This is how I feel comfortable lately and just like i can be myself.I’m sure there are multiple ways of feeling just that, so here is my approach on the untouchable femme.







P a n t s : Zara

S h i r t: made it myself

J a c k e t: Vintage + DIY

S h o e s: Asos

G l a s s e s: H&M