A Rant A Rave and A Raven Beaked Bleak Mouth

A style diary, well today I wore a simple black dress with a v-neck, a cheetah print cardigan, and a hot pink skinny belt. Shoes were black wedges with bows on them (Thohse Tiff Only kNew) and the bag was a little number with gold threading (Ifonlytwerrealgold) with a long over-the-shoulder strap. No picture so to sub is this lame description. I wait til somebody reads and laughs at my failed attempt at a fashion blog. What is it that I don't ahve. AM I too young, surely 13 is a valid age to start a fashion blog. Am I to short, I don't recall taht ever being an issue, and besides I am a good 5'5". My closet to small? Not everybody(and very few bloggers at that) can afford to be shopaholics, not even shopaholics! The bloggers I have notice become famous have certain aspects that make them unique. They wear clothes right out of a japanese comic book, they wear bug eye glasses, they wear too-high shoes, they look like oranges or waifs. I am waiting for my fashion Wonder Woman but if she comes what am I to do. She'll look at me, look at what I have in my closet and shun me. I have nothing of great significance at the moment, and as hard as i try and as i might i can't seem to get above 15 viewers in a year. Others have hundreds by the end of the year. What is it that all those other bloggers have that i don't? Rich parents? Lots of big bows? I have connections, very few and they are thinning out. As in one known connection, as in he's big on QVC and has met and knows several celebrities, and is probably embarassed at my wanting to pursue a fashion career. Designing clearly isn't my shtick, but writing. Now writing is another story completely. The satisfying click of the keys on a keyboard as I write a story, unfurling roses at my fingertips. Or with a pen or pencil, the swish and bend of each letter like a thrilling roller coaster, swaying and rocking like a boat on choppy waters. Writing is as natural for me as breathing, and i admit it the words leave my brain to my arm to my fingers, it truly is amazing. And so so sad that not a soul will read this, my rant, my rave, my soul. But oh well, maybe in the future. Although I feel all of to confident that somebody besides myself will read this. Maybe with a critical eye, maybe with a flippant one. Maybe that singular person will label me as desperate, or they will see who I am in these words. And I am hopeful if not desperate. So whether that person be significant or not we shall see, or won't just maybe something will come of these meanigless meaningful words of joy and sorrow. A pitiful word sorrow is, but no poetry, no true writing comes from happiness does it?