Sangue was on the lips of every tastemaker at Pitti. PSYCH! I don’t go to Pitti anymore—that shit is so played out now. Who wants to fly to Italy and eat gelato for three days while you pretend to be interested in what the PR girl has to say? THAT SHIT WAS TORTURE. Instead, I much prefer to just log on to Tumblr (do kids "log on" to things anymore?) and repost Tommy Ton photos with captions like: “Damn bru, peacocking is at a whole new level this year.” Actually, who am I kidding? Have you guys been to the Cucinelli dinner? THAT SHIT WAS FUCKING AMAZING I THOUGHT I WAS IN A SCENE FROM AN ELABORATE CHRISTOPHER NOLAN MOVIE. Shit was set in, like, a 16th Century palazzo. THERE WAS CHAMPAGNE AND PROSCIUTTO IN EVERY ROOM. And then somehow, somehow we got seated next to a bunch of women who live and work in that town in Italy Brunello owns. Super attractive, cashmere-draped Italian women speaking Italian to you? YOU CAN’T COME BACK FROM SOMETHING LIKE THAT. So no, I do not want to go to your stupid fucking "rooftop barbeque with hot dogs and Mexican Coke.” Anyways, these prints are fucking insane, just like that tangent was.
