Why can't we live in the bubblegum plastic fantastic world of the great and wonderful Barbie. She had everything in the world to me as a kid. A perfect boyfriend, three great sisters, heaps of multi-cultural friends and no parents. Whether she came to having no parents by them being involved in a horrific accident or she becoming divorced from them to live the perfect life, who knows. But she had it all. I have boxes and boxes of Barbie memorabilia that I will cherish forever, from a full kitchen set, bathroom set, bedroom set, camper vans, ponies, you name it I bought it at a white elephant stall or vinnies. Every week new clothes would arrive in Toys R Us for my amazing idol, and I'd save all my pocket money and charge on down to Chatswood and get her all dolled up.
She had impossibly long golden hair, long legs, tiny feet, and teeny waist, all the makings of a beautiful woman. Now I can agree that the modern woman is no where near the proportions of Barbie but she was the original. Now little girls are looking towards Bratz dolls. Hookers in multi-coloured eye-shadow. I have never been more humiliated to be called a girl than when that doll was released. It never looks happy, dresses like a C-grade slut, and has an abnormally large head.
I remember when my favourite thing to do was play Barbie's and escape the world.
The closest I can get now, without being strange.
Is dressing like her.
Now Maximillian did say I'd completley ignored the "80s theme" to my wardrobe and now apparentley I dress like I was thrown up by said decade. But I like it.
Wear colour.
Be offensive.
Laugh loudly.
