What do you fear will haunt you?

February 24, 2017 by Daniela Medina

Have you ever pictured yourself dressed to the nines, walking down the red carpet to screaming fans and paparazzi yelling your name, making small talk with reporter after reporter, and thinking to yourself, "This MUST be a dream, someone pinch me." And then, someone does:

"E! News here with Daniela Medina on the Oscars red carpet: Daniela, who are you wearing this evening?"

"Oh, I found this under my bed while vacuuming; it was suuuuuuuuuuuuuuper dusty, let me tell you. I think it's from Limited Too. Also Jared Leto insisted riding piggyback the whole stretch down, because you know how he is. Say hello, Jared."

"Fabulous. What expectations do you have for tonight, and also, tell us about that one time you accidentally farted—quite loudly—in yoga class?"

Record scratch.

I don't have a real fear of the above scenario actually playing out because I can't act for shit—not to mention I'm thirty and late to the game, ALSO I HAVE NEVER FARTED LOUDLY IN YOGA CLASS except maybe that one time—but in attempting to build an online presence, I occasionally wonder what antics of mine may rear their semi-ugly heads one day. The last few weeks have seen a number of closets dejunked of their skeletons, and while the implications of those situations are exponentially more heinous and damaging, they've piqued me to question what someone could find in my own disastrously organized wardrobe.

Mind you, this is not wholly a bad thing. If something arouses pause before released to the world, it might be worthwhile to investigate why that is. Often we are the biggest strangers to our own unsavory ways: pulling at the threads to see how the fabrics unravel might be an optimal solution to disrobing them. It's possible subliminal ways of unhealthy acting or being will be revealed, and which can then be corrected. We're only as vigilant as we allow ourselves to be.

With that being said, let me apologize now for the snarky things I tweeted at work while I was sleepy and coffee-deprived. I didn't mean them.

Actually I did mean them, but I'm still sorry. Also the office coffee literally tastes like backwater sludge, so somebody please remedy that.

American Apparel blouse; Intimissimi bra; Zara skirt, shoes, and earrings; Uniqlo socks; Vintage belt

Almost Famous.

February 10, 2017 by Daniela Medina

Andy Warhol once said, “In the future, everyone will be world-famous for fifteen minutes.”

Turns out, he was right.

Or, kinda right.

No one can argue that the Internet and social media opened doors to fame in a way few could have anticipated. Walking home through Union Square every day, I’m bound to catch someone on their phone, filming or snapping, in hopes of being the next “Cash Me Ousside Girl,” or, “Salt Bae,” or “Tiny Fist Baby.”

Gotta have hopes and dreams, y’all.

I used to criticize celebrities who shamelessly chased the spotlight, but with Instagram, Snapchat, Twitter, Facebook, et al., I’m beginning to understand how difficult fame must be to let go of. If the addiction of “likes” is so easy to succumb to, I can only begin to comprehend the rush stardom provides, and what the withdrawal from that high must deal out.

I do wonder, however, about those individuals who unwittingly found their Internet glory, and given the choice, whether they would have chosen that route to prominence or not: not all paths lead to the same destination. Fame for the sake of fame will never have any casualties in terms of aspirations, but the way by which you come across it can hinder other goals. On the flip side, once your name is out there, influence is in your own hands to wield. So I suppose my true question is how lazy or ambitious Internet fame can make us, or, have they somehow almost become one in the same thing? Has ambition become lazy, or has laziness become ambitious?

And will someone please coach me on how to become my own damn meme, so that I can get paid and not have to leave my couch?

I might have just answered my own question.

Zara coat and shoes; Vintage jeans, top, and purse; Pearl River Mart necklace

La persistencia de la memoria.

January 26, 2017 by Daniela Medina

What do you fear? Off the bat and superficially, I could give you a sample of answers: alligators/crocodiles, sharks, zombies, heights, 6am, the L train at any hour of the day, and seeing the blinking light on my Wi-Fi router switch from green to red. And there are hundreds of others

But the idea that fills me most with dread is the passing of time. Or, to be more specific, its quickening pace. A smarter person than I once explained that time passes faster relative to our ages, because we’ve experienced more or less of life. To children, a year seems never ending, as they’ve only known so few and cannot accurately gauge twelve months strung together through 365 days. But as adults, we know that an hour amounts to nothing, and that we may as well keep some of the more neutral holiday décor hanging around the house, because before we know it, it’ll just be time to put it up again.

And this is unnerving because the older I get, the more knowledge I have, and the more knowledge I have, the more I want to do with it while being painfully aware of my diminishing time to do so.

I wish there was a way to reset the clock. Of course, there isn’t.

Occasionally, this overwhelming reality mandates two drastic modes of thinking: Try, very frantically, to do everything, or give up completely and do nothing. Neither is a viable option.

It is impossible in this known universe to have it all, an idea our culture has become so unhealthily obsessed with that it drives people to the brink of exhaustion-ridden insanity. But to relinquish the idea of possibility—to abandon dreams and aspirations—isn’t a suitable alternative either.

Instead, it might serve better to consider time as the entity that forces your hand, rather than the one suppressing it.

What do YOU really care about? Where do YOUR passions lie? Time commands you to choose, and for the better. By carving out the unnecessary fat that comes with “having it all,” you become a leaner, faster, more efficient goal-achieving machine. Your legitimate interests deserve that concentrated attention. More importantly, time calls on you to reflect on what you find paramount in life: not what “should” be crucial, but what you actually feel to be so. You can discover a great deal about yourself through that deceptively simple task that in turn, can completely skew your outlook on everything.

So if you’ll excuse me, I have to go see about some Internet memes.

Forever 21 sweater; Zara pants; Loeffler Randall sandals; Handmade necklace.

Guava-Kiwi-Strawberryade. Hold the lemons.

January 06, 2017 by Daniela Medina

When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.

I’ve never been a big fan of lemonade; I’m not really into citrus fruits, generally. Grapefruit’s good—bad for the teeth, though. However, it’s wonderful for boosting the immune system. In theory, it could be interpreted that when someone suggests you make an imaginary drink by spiking highly acidic juice with sugar, they’re letting you know the conundrum you’re dealing with is gonna fuck up your smile, but so long as you get veneers and pretend everything is A-OK, you’ll be just fine.

There are other fruits that won’t do that. Did you know guava has a lot of vitamin C as well? So do kiwis. And strawberries. These fruits have antioxidants, too. They may not taste the same, but they’ll bolster you and kick freewheelin’ bad shit outta there.

I’m not making a lot of sense, and this tangent’s hijacked my train of thought and run away to vacation in Fiji, but I started this post thinking very specifically about the trend of “positive thinking” for any and every situation life throws around.

I don’t think it does any good to sugarcoat: To inject something harsh and unpleasant with so much saccharine, you alter the very nature of it completely. Sure, when lemons are taken to make lemonade, a bad situation is handled to produce a more favorable outcome—but that doesn’t mean it was dealt with.

I understand there are situations where the bad flavor of medicine is too much to stomach on its own. A degree of palatability is necessary for anything to go down. Every once in a while, however, you need to feel that bite. Not always, but sometimes. Too much sugar in the diet can put the body on the brink of insulin-related disease. There are circumstances that require—no, demand—the acceptance of their real form. To disguise them otherwise can result in more harm.

It sounds masochistic, but there is a benefit: you learn. You discover where to get the same kind of nourishment without the adverse side effects.

You know, like in guava. Or kiwis. Or strawberries.

J. Crew dress and pants; Converse leather hi-tops; Noir earrings; Vintage belt

A Wrinkle in Time.

December 31, 2016 by Daniela Medina

Another countdown, another horrendous year shriveling up in the final moments of its death.

That sounds bleak, but we all know how atrocious 2016 has been.

Time is a concept that is very much always on my brain, mostly because the older I get, the more unchanged I feel; not older—in fact, sometimes a little younger (read: immature).

I know I'm not the only one who feels this way. I saw a documentary clip on the great and late Prince, in which he credited his miraculous agelessness to the practice of not celebrating birthdays: if one cannot tick off the years in their life, one cannot get older.

A flawed theory to be sure, but an interesting idea nonetheless.

But as I consider Prince's questionable fountain of youth, I wonder if there might not be more truth to it. Gravity and an eternally orbiting planet are the arch enemies of time, but we are the ones who take that flat line and fold it into an accordion, neatly segmenting the years spent on Earth. We take a certain distance already warped by said gravity and orbit, and make it appear shorter. So there might be something to ignoring the hours, days, and years we make ourselves prisoners to.

Of course, this means accepting that 2016 will not end, but rather bleed and fade away into the time extended before us. But we always knew this would be the case. Deep down, we all know the start of new years do not protect us from anything. Time, unfortunately, is not like a game of tag, in which if you can outpace your predator and touch your hand to the safety of base, you will fortify yourself against harm.

And yet, it also means there are no rules. There’s no final score. There’s nothing to play by. Which means should you choose, you can turn the tables and make 2017 your year and beyond.

Just make sure to give 2016 a nice little kick in the shins before you peace on out.

Happy New Forever, y'all. <3

Mango blazer; H&M choker, pants, and tee; Zara earrings and shoes.

Welcome to Struggle World. Like that of the Spice Girls, we also wear a lot of crop tops here. Even in December.

December 09, 2016 by Daniela Medina in Fashion, Outfit Inspiration

I was sitting on my couch the other night, having wine for dinner because I didn’t feel like cooking, when suddenly it hit me: “Man, what a struggle infested life I live. And wow do I love it.”

All that glamour and shit—who has the time or energy? A lot of people, actually, but I am not one of them. Do you brush or wash your hair everyday? Do you remember to eat? Do you go to bed at 11pm and actually fall asleep at 11pm, instead of staying up an additional three hours under the sheets to watch Gilmore Girls, because you missed that boat in the early 2000s due to strict TV-watching household rules, and have always resented it? Yes? You do all those things?

And are you now asking if I’m sweeping basic hygiene, eating, and a respectable amount of sleep under the category of “glamour and shit”? You betcha.

Truly, though . . . my life isn’t anywhere near struggle-infested. An example of the laughable struggle I'm plagued with is one where I'm forced to choose between staying home to drink a $5 bottle of wine alone in peace, instead of a $15+ LES/Village cocktail—of which nearly half will inevitably be spilled when some girl’s purse knocks into it—or if I do venture out, deciding to willingly tack on an extra hour and a half of travel time at 3am by taking the subway home, instead of a surge-priced Uber. Like, come on.

We pick up a lot of weird, arbitrary rules about how to go about our lives from people who are not us, and know nothing about our experiences—have you noticed that? Not to say I’m closed off to suggestions or advice, but I’m definitely not into being told there’s something incorrect about the way I live, particularly if I enjoy it, or if aspects of it are beyond my control: That I most definitely do not have time for.

Just like I don't have time for anyone telling me I should sleep instead of staying up to 2am to find out what happens with this Dean-Jess situation, because excuse me very much, but I'm like a bajillion years behind on that AND I NEED TO KNOW.

Zara crop top; H&M skirt; Uniqlo socks; Prabal Gurung for Target flats; Tucum necklace; Vintage belt

And here I am feigning warmth, because apparently functioning heat in my apartment was optional.

POWER THROUGH IT!!! HUZZAH!!!

Pretending to be model-y/artsy, but really just listening for pipes that sound like they're about to burst, as an indication the radiator is working.

So maybe if I take my hair like this . . . and wrap it around my neck like this . . . it's like my own hand knit scarf. My own human hair, hand knit scarf. My own dirty, dry shampoo infused, human hair, hand knit scarf. Regrets about not buying that space heater in 3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . .

WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS, AN ARCTIC
BIO-DOME?

Global Thanksgiving.

November 24, 2016 by Daniela Medina in Fashion, Outfit Inspiration, Style

Ah T-Day. Good 'ol T-Day. At this time last year, I was living it up at a Brazilian BBQ in Rio. Sound swank? It's not, I nearly vomited afterwards because I constantly forget I'm not a 200-pound man.

A few months later, that same city would play host to the world's most respected global sporting event, the Olympics. It's the same city where Simone Biles and Katie Ledecky would shatter records, and Ryan Lochte would decide to make the expression, "Jeah!" all his own—leaving Mexicans worldwide, including myself, lamenting, "Damn, that shit was trademark-able??? Coulda BEEN gettin' that paper!"

It's also the city that premiered the first ever Refugee Olympic Team.

We're told to imagine the world as a very big place, leaving some of us who are less adventurous and unwilling to deal with the extraordinary, secluded in our comfort zones. But it's actually rather small, the imaginary borders created in our heads and on maps blurred into nonexistence. So while we spend this day giving thanks for what we have, it's also important to remember why we're able to do that: where have the good things in our lives come from and why. The boundaries we create for ourselves and the world are usually physical manifestations of the walls of thought erected in our brains, segmenting us into convenient little groups to battle it out for resources, rights, and privilege. But we are not so separate as we would like to believe ourselves to be. Earth, after all, is home for everyone.

So on this day of thanks, express gratitude for the abundance in your life. Go all out. Shout it from the rooftops. Then do everything in your part to help other people live a life where they can do the same.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.

Forever 21 bomber; H&M button-up dress; American Apparel skirt and belt; Uniqlo socks; Zara boots; Housing Works necklace

The Ghosts of Fast Fashion Past.

November 18, 2016 by Daniela Medina in Fashion, Style, Outfit Inspiration

There's been a lot on my mind lately. Which is unusual for me, and now my brain hurts! Ha! Just kidding, I have a PhD in overthinking things. Want to mess up a situation that's totally fine by letting an overactive brain wreak havoc on it? I'm ya girl.

However, with politics playing so heavily on the forefront, I have, truly, been ruminating on quite a lot. One issue that's been haunting me specifically is that of planet Earth's health.

I'm a pretty big offender of fast fashion. Obviously this blog is a testament to that. Like the majority of the population, I make my purchases at Forever 21, Zara, H&M, ASOS, and so on and so forth, because it's what I can afford: I don't have sponsors or endorsements for my blog posts, so everything I buy comes straight out of my pockets. It adds up! I tell myself that I don't throw everything out immediately (in fact I hang onto clothes and accessories for years), so it's not that bad . . . but isn't it? The fact remains, all the negatives that took place to produce the commodities I bought still occurred, whether I throw them out immediately or not.

So I've been looking a lot at thrift and consignment stores. I mean, I always have, but even more so these days. A lot of folks get an ick factor at the thought of trying on, let alone purchasing and bringing home, clothing that has been owned by a stranger, and I get that, but I also really think not ruining the world is just way more pressing. See, there's this invasive theory I suspect many individuals have: they're "just one person," so what harm can they really do? What's a gum wrapper on the street here, or a long shower there? What's a three dollar shirt here, or a fifteen dollar pair of shoes there? Really, what's it going to do? After all, they're just one out of an estimated 7.4 billion people. The problem is, when you get 7.4 billion people who think the same way, you're doing the math wrong: it's not one out of 7.4 billion, it's one times 7.4 billion.

You see where I'm going here?

Zara coat and shoes (thrift store purchases); H&M top (thrift store purchase); Noir earrings (thrift store purchase); American Apparel belt; Hanes sports bra; Giorgio Armani skirt (freaking thrift store purchase!)

Stride of Pride.

November 11, 2016 by Daniela Medina

If I'm going to be honest, it hasn't really been the easiest to work on anything Strugglista related the past few days. Like a lot of the country, I'm in a state of shock, a state of mourning; mourning, for the peace and progress I naively believed we were working towards. The results of this election shoot past the disappointment of my candidate losing. If that were the case, I'd be bummed, but would respect the transition of power. This was more than Democrat versus Republican. For me, personally, this was a case of politician I'm not over the moon about, versus a man who refrained from showing any sense of decency for the past year and change of his campaign. I've said it before, and I will say it again: Hillary Clinton was not my dream candidate. To be honest, I'm not sure if in the history of my voting ability I've seen a dream candidate, even as incredible and wonderful as I think Obama has been. But that person may not exist at all, or be able to exist, in the realm of American politics. Which is sad, but a story for another day.

But I know for sure that Donald Trump was not my dream candidate either. For. Sure. I know for sure that a person who encourages discrimination, hatred, and violence is not my dream anything. And I refuse to pardon the behavior he exhibited, especially as it has resulted in the intimidation and threatened safety of so many.

For the past few days I've asked myself, "Where do we go from here? What can possibly be done?" I've read the point of views from the many Trump voters who do not support his bigoted, misogynistic rhetoric, and have tried to understand where they're coming from. I do believe, and find legitimate, a lot of their reasons for electing the candidate they did, but that has not made it any easier to move past the pain and fear I, and others, now feel—both as a woman and a minority. So where do we go from here?

Well, as I see it there are two choices. The first is back and down. We become rooted in our divides, pointing fingers and accusing one another of being sexists, racists, classists, elitists, closed-off, closed-minded, and so on and so on. We stumble backwards into the trenches we've dug for one another, and stay there for refuge. Personally, that sounds like a dreadful option. Trenches are not fun. History should have taught us that by now.

The second choice is to move forward and up. We hold our heads high, embracing the wonderful diversity within ourselves, and present it to the world in a manner that is open, respectful, compassionate, and willing to learn. We walk our strides of pride, and admire one another for it. The best offense here is not defense. The best offense here is shutting the fuck up and listening to each other, for once. It is examining the plumage of this bird, and that one, and the one way over there, and seeing what makes them different from one another, what makes them exceptional, what makes them vulnerable, and what symbiotic relationship can be formed within this hodge podge flock that is our country. And then, maybe then, we can figure out a flight pattern that works for all of us.

Sound Pollyannaish? It's really not. I'm not promoting holding hands, and singing Kumbaya, and braiding each other's hair. Not at all. In fact, that sounds like a tailored nightmare, because I don't like being touched or singing—both of those activities make me very uncomfortable—and also my hair is a hot mess, and I honestly don't trust anyone to deal with it other than myself and the man who cuts it. All I'm saying is that we have to figure out a way to coexist. It's not impossible. We only make it sound like it is, which, sorta contributes to the reality of it. Kinda makes you wonder what would happen if we changed our tune. Or, bird call, if you will.

Sandra Rubel vintage couture; American Apparel belts; Zara earrings; Jeffrey Campbell heels.

Mrs. Clinton, if you're nasty.

November 02, 2016 by Daniela Medina in Fashion, Style

I think we all know what's at stake these next few days.

I wanted to jokingly say something dumb about The Bachelorette just now, but I don't watch that show and don't even know if it's currently on the air, so let me cut to the chase. By this time next week, we will have a new President of the United States. Which is terrifying to think about, because whoever gets the status of POTUS, also inherits the Twitter handle, and I don't know about you, but I'd be perfectly happy to never hear from a certain presidential candidate on Twitter ever again.

But let me not be coy about this, because I'm for Hillary Clinton, and I want to take a minute to appreciate her—not as a presidential candidate, but as a woman. In every presidential election there will always be accusations, conspiracy theories, and propaganda thrown against the contenders, but I don't think anyone can legitimately take away what Hillary Clinton has accomplished. First, let me clarify that I don't agree with her 100%. I'm not sure if I even agree with her seventy-five, or fifty percent. She's not perfect in the least. She's messed up pretty significantly. She doesn't come off as the easiest person to warm up to; but then again, one can only imagine why that is. I don't suppose thirty years in American politics as a woman transforms one into a sugarcoated teddy bear. Can we take a minute to consider what it must have been like then? What it must be like now? Can any of us imagine the pressure? And after we have, can we take a minute to appreciate that HRC is what grace looks like under it?

In high school, I nearly failed a public speaking course because I wouldn't stop staring at the ceiling while trying to explain how to make cookies that required only three ingredients. Three. In a class of twenty students. Because I couldn't handle looking at their faces. Because I was afraid to catch them making fun of my three-ingredient cookies. I'm sure we've gone over this before, but people fear public speaking more than death. And yet we want to rag on a woman who not only has to publicly speak every day in front of thousands, if not millions, of people who will find every reason under the sun to crucify her, but also has to enact controversial policy, deal with crises, meet with world leaders, smile while she's doing it, AND be female? In a country that is notoriously sexist?

WOMAN, COME ON.

H&M peplum blazer; Forever 21 skirt; Zara velvet booties; Banana Republic curb necklace; Nasty Gal ID necklace.

Spider Daniela, Spider Daniela, does whatever a Spider Daniela does!

October 26, 2016 by Daniela Medina

I'm a very fidgety person, prone to random and sudden movement that will catch you unaware. This makes the subway absolutely impossible. I mean, it's a miserable experience for everyone, especially as of late, but being in a jam-packed car and unable to to move my shoulders, arms, or legs, brings me to the verge of insanity. I just get . . . itchy. I don't know how to explain it. Like, if I don't move constantly, my chest will explode and a billion ants will come flying out and bite all of you.

Or spiders. Maybe spiders.

How cool would it be to be Spiderman, though? Man, I'd never have to take the subway AGAIN. I could just web-shoot and swing around everywhere. SO AMAZING. Plus I'd get to wear stretchy, moveable spandex all the time, which is so necessary. Because clothes that I can't move in? Nah. I can't. That's like the fabric equivalent of the MTA. I never know when a spontaneous high-kick may come on; I need to be ready.

Oh, you think I'm kidding? Fine. Go ahead and don't keep outside a safe, three-foot radius around me. See what happens.

J. Crew silk top and cotton-stretch pants; Zara oxfords and choker; H&M hairclip (used here as a brooch).

Come on down to Margaritaville.

October 21, 2016 by Daniela Medina

Come on down to me. Oof, wait, that did not sound right. Let me try again: Come on down to a place where I will be drinking, thus establishing that location as Margaritaville, because my middle name is Margarita, and I will be situated in a community of booze, otherwise known as a bar.

I don’t know where you are in the world, but here in New York it’s a pretty grody Friday—it’s muggy, and rainy, and gray, and wet. It’s the kind of Friday where you wake up and just kinda stare out the window for ten minutes, thinking about dreading the act of thinking, and how it will need to happen at some point today whether you’d like it to or not.

Now, I don’t condone or suggest alcohol as a remedy for problems, but . . . sometimes . . . yes. Yes, today a liquor-infused beverage will magically cure my emotional ailments like nothing else will. Especially after the week we’ve collectively had as a nation. I don’t know if you watched the debate on Wednesday, but Gah. Damn. Give me all the tequila. Even the bottles with worms in them.

Vintage Sandra Rubel silk-velvet top; Zara faux leather skirt, glitter socks, and earrings; Topshop clogs; Vintage belt.

"Hiya, Sugarlips," and the other gross things we've been called.

October 19, 2016 by Daniela Medina

Man, there's a whole lot going on in the world right now: the Great Barrier Reef is on life support, Bigfoot is vacationing in Indonesia, three people spun $1 on The Price Is Right (I actually don't know what that means, but apparently it was all the rage in the daytime gameshow world), aaaaaaaaaand Donald Trump said some batshit crazy things about sexual assault and women. Oh, and then his son chimed in. Well, three years ago, but still.

Nearly every woman I know—actually, no: I think it's safe to say every woman I know. Every woman I know has dealt with some form of sexual misconduct in her life, ranging from minor offenses, to way, way off the charts major offenses. A minor offense would include passive off-colored remarks or casual leering, which although not okay, is obviously not at the same level of something way, way off the charts major, like rape. But there's a danger to that, to giving sexual assault a dynamic range that fluctuates between minor and major: none of it is okay, and none of it should ever be indulged. I've been fortunate enough to not been dealt the level of sexist trauma that completely fucks with your life, but man, I've definitely put up with some shit.

I've had the argument more than once that fashion extends past clothes; it's a reflection of our lives. I don't say that in a trite, off-hand way; I truly believe it. Having experienced at an early age—like many, many, many young girls—the squeamishness that comes with being evaluated, observed, even lusted after, has resulted in feeling uneasy in my own skin. I don't like to look super feminine. I don't like to wear a lot of makeup. I don't like clothes that fit too tightly or show off too much skin (minus the summer crop tops). I don't like attracting that sort of attention. Mostly because I don't like feeling that I did something to deserve or invite lewd comments or gazes. I don't like to think about what a person may be imagining when I catch them staring too long, whether it's an unsavory fantasy or vitriolic slut shaming. I don't have the brain space for it. So I cover up. I diminish my womanly features. Because I feel safer that way. I lean more tomboy, because I don't want to feel that I'm not in power and control. Which is sad, because women are extraordinarily strong; while there are many strengths only men know, there are innumerable fortitudes women possess that men will never fully comprehend.

It's another level of censorship. This, of course, is not exclusive to females. Men are victims of this as well, though it's not as common. Regardless of being a woman or a man, at no time should a person be reduced to the status of object, to be coveted or taken ownership of. Nor at any time should a person feel restricted in their lifestyle, or the choices they make, because some outside party can't get their mind right and shit together. They only thing anyone should expect to receive from someone outside themselves is respect and dignity as a fellow human being. Yeah, it's cliché. That's because it's so goddamn true. And maybe it's about time we start realizing it.

10.Deep varsity jacket; H&M hoodie; Zara overalls, choker, and platforms.

10/13/16

October 12, 2016 by Daniela Medina

It's Peanut Butter Yeti Time.

I apologize for the half-serving of red herring: this post has nothing to do with peanut butter. It does, however, have a lot to do with Yetis. BECAUSE IT'S FINALLY GETTING COLD ENOUGH TO BREAK OUT THAT FAUX FUR, HOMIES.

You know what I loved as a kid? The texture of the figurines used in those old stop motion movies, like Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. So fuzzy! So curly! So floofy! So cozy! If you don't know what I'm talking about, stop reading this right now and go educate yourself. CRIPES.

Now, for those of you who like to begin celebrating Halloween in August, calm down and pleeeeeease let that happen first. This is not a "Christmas is coming!" post. I just want to talk about some damn faux fur. Because it's the shit! You can walk around looking like any animal you want: a polar bear, a skunk, a poodle, a raccoon, a bird, that shady creature you saw once in the alleyway behind your apartment building—anything. This is very relevant to my interests, because the closest I come to providing my own cold weather fur is the hair that grows unchecked on my legs between the months of October and May. Don't get me wrong, it's substantial, but it doesn't compare to having an actual coat of it. Personally, I like wearing anything big and thick enough to make me look like Bumble, the abominable snowman who befriends Rudolph (after Rudolph and his elf friend pull homeboy's teeth out, wtf). Looking like a Yeti is just kind of my thing, man.

And by, "looking like a Yeti," I mean, looking ridiculous, and by, "my thing," I mean something that occurs naturally whether I want it to or not.

Boohoo faux fur vest; H&M shirt; Zara pants and sandals, Uniqlo socks; Vintage belt; Handmade necklaces

10/5/16

October 05, 2016 by Daniela Medina

Surrender to the many flags of Freaklandia.

I am a weird person. And I don't mean weird in that precious, "But everyone's unique!" kind of way. No. I'm talking about a level of weird that sometimes, in private, I'll do or say something that takes even me aback. Like, "Damn, girl; what the fuck?"

Granted, I've become very desensitized to myself, so the above occurrences are few and far in between. It's actually somewhat refreshing when I do something self-shocking, because it's an indication I'm still a-growing, still a-changing. Or whatever.

But also, utilizing the corny wisdom I've been gifted with aging, I've slowly learned that "weird" is just a social construct in the same way that "normal" is. Both of them are made up bullshit concepts. So while in the past I've chided myself for my bizarre little ticks or habits, of which there are many, I inspect them now and think, "Well, why exactly are they weird? Why do they make me weird? Why do other behaviors make other people more normal?" They don't. People are just people.

So go ahead: surrender to that fantasy of streaking at a Mets game. Live your life! Let that freak flag fly!

I take that back, don't do that—that's poor advice. You will most likely get arrested.

Vintage Sandra Rubel silk-velvet top; Zara satin pants and calf hair sneakers; Forever 21 earrings; Michaels bead bracelet; Goody hairband

9/30/16

September 30, 2016 by Daniela Medina

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

9/21/16

September 21, 2016 by Daniela Medina

Red, red wine, stay far from me.

You know what’s terrifying? Wearing white. I mean, it looks pretty and all, but if I’m ever wearing a white top, or white skirt, or pants, or dress, or something, the only thought that goes through my brain is, “This will end in tears.”

Well, not tears exactly. Maybe more like a string of expletives.

Because YOU KNOW something’s gonna end up on it. It might be wine, or ketchup, or marinara sauce, or your period, or some other kind of blood—because I don’t know your life—but whatever evil high-stain potential thing it is, it will find a way to murder your fibers.

And then the outfit is basically done for. Do you know how hard it is to get stains out of white clothing? That shit will never look the same, I don’t care how much OxiClean you dump on it. Even if you never, ever, ever get stains on it—if you lock yourself in a closet on the days you wear white, because that seems more worth it to you than just not wearing it—the fabric will still become yellow and dingy on its own.

But no worries, tomorrow is the first day of autumn, and we were supposed to stop wearing white a few weeks ago. I used to think the “no white after Labor Day” rule was incredibly stupid, until I started to think about the kinds of rich, decadent, highly pigmented foods that are associated with the fall and winter months. The history behind the rule is associated with BEAUCOUP snobbery, BUT, maybe the hoity-toity women who pulled it out of gold dust-filled air were onto something.

Or maybe they were just tight-ass beetches, which is most likely, but still. Is it really worth the trouble? I think not. I personally take heart in the fact that I can wear an all-black outfit, be uncoordinated enough to flip an entire meal onto my lap, and have no one be the wiser.

If you think I’m not capable of that, try me. It’s already happened. I am not proud.

I’m a little proud, most people aren't uncoordinated enough to do that.

Zara boots and silver collar; Vintage mother of pearl collar; Vintage wooden bracelets; Goodwill jumpsuit

9/14/16

September 14, 2016 by Daniela Medina

Cold shoulders, warm heart. Just kidding, the heart's cold, too.

I’m clinging onto the remaining days of sandal and shirt weather. Admittedly, wearing sandals in New York typically results in a pretty grody foot situation, as I discovered the first time I braved flip-flops outside, but hey man: if them toes gotta wiggle freely, them toes gotta wiggle freely.

Cold-shoulder tops are the sandals of shirts. A sandal is a deconstructed shoe, and a cold-shoulder top is a deconstructed shirt, deconstructed being used here as a fancy way of saying, “cut holes into.”

I mean, look at that shirt. The person who designed it watched Mean Girls too many times and thought that by cutting holes out of the shoulders instead of the boobs, no one would notice they BASICALLY did the exact same thing Lindsay Lohan did in the movie. But I love it, I don’t care what the hell it looks like. It’s like being able to wear a sleeveless shirt without having to shave my armpits: the friends with benefits of sleeveless shirts.

And sandals are essentially shoes with holes cut in them. They, however, existed way before Mean Girls. In fact, maybe Tina Fey saw a woman wearing sandals one day and thought, “Ha! Toe cleavage. That’s like a low cut shirt for feet.” Which made her think of boobs, which made her think of boobs in shirts, which made her think of boobs sticking out of shirts, and voila, the famous boob-cutting scene was born.

You see, guys: everything is connected. If anyone ever argues against that, let them know about this toe-boob association. If you’re lucky, they’ll only look at you like you’re an idiot, and not actually tell you you’re one.

Everything is from Zara. Per usual. They have great sales.

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8/31/16

August 31, 2016 by Daniela Medina

The Winter of Our Discontent. Or, Fall.

You know what they say: If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em, and if you don’t want to join ‘em, stand in the corner looking dour.

Oh my dears. My heart is so heavy on this last day of August, in which we acknowledge the withering of summer. Every dip in temperature sinks my joy farther along with it.

But! Fall in the Northeast really, truly, is lovely. And the foods, the drinks! In Texas the coming of fall means we merely swap out our cold drinks for slightly less cold drinks, and then keep on truckin’. Can you believe before I moved to New York I didn’t know what an apple cider donut was? I mean it is apple cider in donut form—food and drink united in circular bliss. How the hell did I live my life not aware of its existence?

And of course, there is the ability to dress in layers, as a friend so aptly pointed out when she caught onto my sulking. Wearing a scarf, hat, and gloves in Houston either gets you a side-eye, a sneer, or a sarcastic, “Aw, that’s cute.” Up here though, they’re essential. Fall really is the season of my favorite thing: accessories.

Not that you can tell by the photo, because no, actually I just remembered: fuck fall and the hellish winter it brings in its wake. Fuck it! Fuck all of it! I want to wear short sleeves and breezy pants and feel warm forever! Someone get me on a plane to Bermuda, the hell with this shit!

Zara top and shoes; Nary Manivong pants; H&M necklace

8/25/16

August 25, 2016 by Daniela Medina

#TBT 4EVA

If you could return to one memory, what would it be? And why? There are so many in my roster, I'd find it impossible to choose.

In fact, there are too many. I have some trouble with living in the past. The goggles I use to time travel are rose-tinted, casting a delicate shade of pink over everything I gaze on. The past is always optimal, always more cherished, never as good as the present. The present often disappoints expectations, which then prescribe a bleak forecast of the future.

What I forget is, the memories I treasure so much were once my present, were once my future. They were once something I set up in my mind for an anticlimax. I don't like the word "mindfulness," because it's too new-agey and vague for my taste, but I agree with the concept it advocates. I should better appreciate the present as a conduit between what has happened, and what is to come.

There's a well-known section from Lewis Carroll's Alice in Wonderland, involving lengthy discourse between Alice and the White Queen about the function of memory:

“It's a poor sort of memory that only works backwards,” the Queen remarked.

“What sort of things do YOU remember best?” Alice ventured to ask.

“Oh, things that happened the week after next,” the Queen replied in a careless tone.

Neuroscientists have discovered the role of memory is not to simply archive the past, but rather, keep it as an active index that helps a person conduct themselves better in the future. It's debated we imagine our futures by making composites from past experiences, stitching them together to create a new synopsis for ourselves. By doing this we create a "mental wormhole," so to speak, that connects memory with foresight, or, past with future. Which means that in a sense, I'm doing what I should: living in the past. But I'm not supposed to buy a luxury condo and hire a decorator so that I can take up full-time residence there.

Although, to be fair, the past is the only place where I could actually afford a luxury condo and decorator, so. You know.

Henri Bendel halter top; Zara wrap-skirt and heels; Vintage bracelets.