If I were a pop star.

But I never will be, because I stutter and mispronounce words. For example, when I was a kid I thought Gatorade was pronounced not as “Gator-ade (gay-tor-ayd),” but as “Gato-rade (gah-toh-rayd)”, or, “Catdrink.” And I can’t dance. I’m extraordinarily clumsy. Have you ever seen someone trip over themselves? No, not over things; over t-h-e-m-s-e-l-v-e-s. It happens to me all the time. I’ll fall over my own feet and be all surprised, like, “Oh shit: where did that foot that’s always been attached to my leg that’s always been attached to my hip all my life come from? Sneaky.” All in all, I have no finesse. I get really nervous in front of strangers. If you and I were to have a conversation, an approximate three-quarters of it would be spent with me not making eye contact with you, but instead, looking just past your shoulder. Which does not make the other person uncomfortable at all.

But I like to imagine I’m cool. Sometimes when I’m walking on the sidewalk I retreat to my fantasy world and weave together intricate scenarios in which I always reign Queen Supreme of Radness. I have a suspicion that while I do this my face becomes distorted into some goofier version of itself—a decidedly uncool thing—but it doesn’t matter: In my head I’m a Latin Beyoncé who knows all the right moves and all the right things to say. If anybody slights me in any way, I simply *kick ball change* and give a Sasha Fierce wave buy-bye to my offender. Or say, perhaps, that a beast of a man pummels through me and knocks me into the street—as they are wont to do here for some reason—my retort is to banshee yell at him, “WHO RUN THE WORLD? GIRLS.” and watch him cower away in shame. My alter ego oozes confidence and suaveness, and everywhere I may saunter people nod in agreement over nothing, if only to acknowledge that, “Yes, that is Latin Beyoncé.”

And then, at some point in my journey, I forget how to keep my feet out of the way out of each other because walking is a difficult business, and just like that I’m yanked out of my fantasy world. A disappointment at first, but then I remember, “Hey, man, this is New York, I can be whoever and whatever I want to be: A Latin Beyoncé who can’t walk straight or look people in the eye, and has a preference for Catdrink.” 

And thus began a series of photographs in which I took advantage of no one being on the sidewalk.

J. Crew tee, Uniqlo Sweater and socks, Pleather Zara skirt; you can “Faux Leather” or “Vegan Leather” all you want, but you and I both know that shit is plastic. Which is fine.

“Oh hai.”


“Alright, well that’s enough of that then.”

And that’s about it. So remember, guys:


Photos taken by Kait as she sobbed and asked, “Daniela, WHY must you drag me out here everyday?” and I answered, “Because I’m a-a diva (hey), I’m a, I’m a-a diva (hey).”