tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-45336544137176560132024-03-05T15:40:14.216-08:00Haute Mess MegMeghan Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11001432294502745255noreply@blogger.comBlogger25125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4533654413717656013.post-83346517766513665722014-08-13T06:21:00.003-07:002014-08-13T07:00:19.817-07:00<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); font-family: '.Helvetica NeueUI'; font-size: 18px;">I’ve read poems and articles and love stories and countless love notes, and I have always thought that love, and I mean true, undeniable love, worked one way. I thought that, if you don’t fall fast and abruptly, it wasn’t true love. For it to be true love, it must rush over in an instant and consume your whole being. You must become dizzy and dumb and doe eyed. You must lose sleep talking to your lover at all hours of the night to know that they're thinking of you. You will weap when a phone call is missed, a date is cancelled or a three month anniversary is forgotten. It wasn't until I experienced you, that I realized this wasn’t true love at all, but a mere distraction. A detour from reality. True love happens slowly and precisely. True love is morning breath and tulips. </span><span style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); font-family: '.Helvetica NeueUI'; font-size: 18px;">True love is two years later and finding a new freckle you relish. True love is not a campfire that will subside in the late evening. True love is the whole damn Western Hemisphere erupting</span><span style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); font-family: '.Helvetica NeueUI'; font-size: 18px;"> into flames.</span></div>
Meghan Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11001432294502745255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4533654413717656013.post-50484557505039270092013-11-20T07:58:00.002-08:002013-11-20T08:00:40.354-08:00<div style="text-align: center;">
It is much easier to love with my hands <br />
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clenching your breast and my tongue<br />
<br />
writing sonnets in your mouth, than my <br />
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tongue praising your inhibitions and my<br />
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hands seizing your tears.</div>
Meghan Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11001432294502745255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4533654413717656013.post-92145523657456423642013-11-14T17:05:00.001-08:002013-11-14T17:07:08.935-08:00<div style="text-align: center;">
You were convinced that my three glasses of scotch were to blame for my jagged driving. But I must say, asphalt isn't nearly as appealing as learning the rhythm of your lips when they're moving, or how many times you run your hands through your sweated out waves in a five minute interval. I remember how you blacked out the room so I couldn't even catch a glimpse of your naked body when I was writing my name between your thighs. I could taste your history in your kiss; a bitter taste I had once known so well. I ran my fingertips over your perfectly sculpted curves and read you like brail. Who made you like this? Past lovers had molded you into a woman that even I, after one taste, knew you were not. When were you taught that your bare skin and stripped down silhouette were shy of a masterpiece? What I would give to study your visage in every hour of the sunlight. What I would do to have you for one more night; sober, unfiltered, watching the candlelight dance across your profile as my fingertips rewrite your story.</div>
Meghan Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11001432294502745255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4533654413717656013.post-60741937703448818602013-10-13T13:40:00.000-07:002013-10-13T13:40:04.064-07:00<span style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); font-family: '.Helvetica NeueUI'; font-size: 18px;">I tasted the ocean in my tears as they kissed my cheek , but why? Is comfort synonymous with love? Or is comfort simply mistaken for love? To love is to be comfortable, but that doesn't make them one in the same, does it? Like when you can't bear to bid farewell to your first baby tooth. Or when you kick and scream at your first battle of scissor versus tresses. A gash doesn't pain you, but when your eyes catch a glimpse of crimson waterfalling from your wound, it's agony. You taste different on my tongue today. Sweeter than ever, but I for once, crave bitter. Can a corpse be revived once its gone. I'm on life support, I'm a vegetable under your heart's control, but I am secure. I am there. I am breathing. But I am not feeling. Do we pull the plug?</span>Meghan Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11001432294502745255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4533654413717656013.post-8835284380858703222013-09-05T20:54:00.001-07:002013-09-05T20:54:51.956-07:00<br />
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<span style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">I felt like I was home, but with a lock that I no longer had the keys to; with blinds that undressed themselves when the sky cried and the heavens howled. The pristine ivory paint began peeling away, uncovering cracks that freshly existed, and floorboards whined with the lightest of pressure. Shadows formed where the sun used to sleep and Warhols warped. Mice claimed the basement, while spiders housed the attic. The grandfather clock struck at 11:52 instead of midnight. The house stopped settling at night and that burst of air at 2 in the morning, never tickled my toes hello. The bluebirds stopped kissing the window when the sun graced the horizon, and the steady traffic decided to resign from it’s alarm clock duties. Water dripped instead of flowed from the faucet, and the bristles from my toothbrush were unorderly and awry. Doors that never shut, locked with ease and some doors never opened again. Frocks that I favored, I suddenly loathed, and family portraits shifted into obituaries. I kept the light on and lit a candle and realized, I was no longer home.</span></div>
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Meghan Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11001432294502745255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4533654413717656013.post-4754559539878268732013-08-23T22:24:00.000-07:002013-08-23T22:24:06.005-07:00Who Am I?So what am I now; the leftover, ashy remains of a cremated lover? The piece of a candle wick that will no longer catch the flame of a burnt down match, or the balmy wax slipping between your fingertips? Am I freshly laundered sheets you bury your aging face under, or the blanket of security you hide behind? Am I the worn down tires skidding against damp asphalt? Am I the sound of a kettle crying, or sugar liquidating into stifling cup of tea? Am I your pupil or your iris? Do you see me in a kaleidoscope of colors, or the lack of light? Am I the rupturing follicles of ringlets kissing your neck, or am I your fresh roots sprouting? Am I the musical playing at the stroke of midnight, or simply the ticking of the minutes? Am I the pistol your tremulous paw is clenching, or the bullet ricocheting into your gaping mouth? Am I your mind's logic, or your heart's chaos?Meghan Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11001432294502745255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4533654413717656013.post-50870226052065282272013-08-22T08:30:00.001-07:002013-08-22T08:30:37.972-07:00<span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">"Take your hands over your bumpy lovebody naked, </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">and remember the first time you touched someone </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">with the sole purpose of learning all of them. T</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">ouched them because the light was pretty on them </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">and the dust in the sunlight danced the way your heart did. T</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">ouch yourself with a purpose, </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">your body is the most beautiful royal. F</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">athers and uncles are not claiming your knife anymore, </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">are not your razor, no </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">put the sharpness back </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">lay your hands flat and feel the surface of scarred skin. I</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"> once touched a tree with charred limbs, </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">the stump was still breathing </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">but the tops were just ashy remains, I</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"> wonder what it’s like to come back from that. S</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">ometimes I feel a forest fire erupting from my wrists</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">and the smoke signals sent out are the most beautiful things I</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">’ve ever seen."</span>Meghan Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11001432294502745255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4533654413717656013.post-58281358632610168332013-07-15T21:00:00.004-07:002013-07-15T21:00:55.065-07:00My Darling<a class="timestamp" href="http://hautemessmeg.tumblr.com/post/23547316568/sharonneedlesofficial-get-in-loser-were-going" style="border: 0px; color: #666666; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10px; font-style: italic; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none; text-transform: lowercase; vertical-align: baseline;"> with 1397 notes</a><br /><div class="box" style="border: 0px; float: none; font-family: inherit; font-size: 11px; font-style: inherit; left: 287px; margin: 31px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; position: absolute; top: 1644px; vertical-align: baseline; width: 225px;">
<a class="title" href="http://hautemessmeg.tumblr.com/post/23468706819/my-darling" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #666666; display: block; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">My darling</a><div class="caption" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #666666; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; line-height: 15px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 8px 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
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I don’t know if it’s a downfall or an act of complete selflessness, but it’s absolutely what I do. I focus all of my energy, time, love and efforts into someone else so I don’t have to dwell on my own flaws and my overwhelming amount of imperfections. Maybe it’s cowardly. I’m terrified to face myself and battle that battle again. I don’t know if there’s ever a surrendering white flag in the war with one’s self. I know how far I’ve traveled though and how far I still need to go. Im not certain where my wandering may lead, but I am positive that I want you, with me, every step of the way. I want you to know all of my secrets that have yet to be unraveled and engage in whatever mishaps, mayhem and miracles have yet to come. You’re nothing I imagined for myself and I’m convinced thats why I fall harder with every laugh. Thank you for bringing me happiness that’s unquestionable. Thank you for being you.</div>
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Meghan Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11001432294502745255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4533654413717656013.post-78440134411932560362013-06-09T05:38:00.001-07:002013-06-09T05:38:12.622-07:00Her"But you spoke of her like she was the most beautiful, statuesque woman you had ever laid eyes on. I envisioned her to be towering and perfectly proportioned with flowing locks and these mesmerizing bedroom eyes in a shade of grey that is uncanny."<br />
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"She is none of those things, except the most beautiful woman that my eyes have had the pleasure of encountering. No more than 5'5 and a little fuller than your average with short, anything but flowing, curls. Delectable almond eyes in your everyday shade of brown. But it was more than just that; there was a fire, a sadness, behind those chocolate irises. Something so hypnotizing and captivating about this woman. Unannounced and often subtle, a beauty, oh believe me, a beauty she was and is. Not all of the world could see her beauty, but the few that did, man were we the lucky ones. And that's how you know she's a beautiful woman; because you never look at any other female the same after her."Meghan Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11001432294502745255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4533654413717656013.post-41752546679229576442013-06-07T22:11:00.002-07:002013-06-07T22:11:58.929-07:00The RemedyIs anyone ever really cured? Will I always be the slightly suicidal, overly emotional, codependent yet insistently dependent girl who's a little unsure and entirely too certain? Will you always be the obsessive compulsive alcoholic who insists that she's cured but drowns her sorrows at the bottom of a cheap bottle of vodka? Is there really any cure for life or this constant self inflicted pain? What about the demons inside of us? Can we ever kill them, or are we only feeding their never ending hunger?Meghan Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11001432294502745255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4533654413717656013.post-62387531277310947282012-08-08T13:07:00.001-07:002012-08-08T13:08:55.887-07:00Summertime SadnessNot quite seven, and not quite awake, I suddenly rose to your beauty. Unconventional at best, but a refined symmetry ideal for a watercolor. I envied the way the sun kissed you that morning; so delicately pecking your cheek. Your eyes refracted pools of sadness, but an undefinable serenity. Were you safe in my flimsy arms? My pedestrian looks only enhancing your beauty. Was I not enough? Or maybe, too much.Meghan Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11001432294502745255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4533654413717656013.post-12471986244471908942012-05-24T20:07:00.001-07:002012-05-24T20:07:42.582-07:00'That' GirlI always wanted to be that simply beautiful girl. You know, lace and pearls and a deep part with dark brown cascading locks. No lipstick and maybe some mascara. Nothing excessive, just pure beauty. But I am not. I’m leather stifling in the Florida heat. Shreds in your tights and an uneven part. An overprocessed blonde and seven rings. No simplicity because it’s never enough.Meghan Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11001432294502745255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4533654413717656013.post-17178658787476815032012-02-17T10:00:00.001-08:002012-02-17T10:01:21.258-08:00You Win None, You Lose NoneWhy is it that hypocrisy is the most distinct foundation for everyone’s life? Disagree all you want, but then that will just make you fall under that category even more. We’re told to let our feelings out, open up, break down those walls we spend our whole life building up, and the second we do, we are ridiculed, slaughtered and served for supper. The instant we put our personal issues and struggles out there, we are suddenly classified as whiny, self-absorbed, selfish individuals. And isn’t society always telling us to love ourselves because we’re beautiful just the way we are? The queen herself has even embedded into millions of little monsters’ heads that they were “Born This Way.” Yet, once one prances around with pride and refers to their self as, gasp, beautiful, it’s an abomination! How dare someone actually possess confidence and acquire self-fulfillment? Society depicts the perfect person as accessible, yet still defensive; humble, yet still secure. But in actuality, we’re all stuck in a lose-lose rut.Meghan Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11001432294502745255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4533654413717656013.post-53868684872949555472012-02-14T21:33:00.003-08:002012-02-14T21:37:07.648-08:00The Benefits of Not Being In Love...<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinie1rux-4vfzxdeayqIxUDRWxYZ2QtGaTHEPlHV172bNII8N6BZ5xLo3rKfczOjDZ4sAZ-gzepVY0qH06-U2m9RXcCSyLN1sCb5E-KRwsTneAu2ZR0mNDUYGdFAoLmC4bEyPeqVyO60g/s1600/vv.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 278px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinie1rux-4vfzxdeayqIxUDRWxYZ2QtGaTHEPlHV172bNII8N6BZ5xLo3rKfczOjDZ4sAZ-gzepVY0qH06-U2m9RXcCSyLN1sCb5E-KRwsTneAu2ZR0mNDUYGdFAoLmC4bEyPeqVyO60g/s400/vv.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5709231753763886258" /></a><br /><center> So this doesn't have much relation to fashion, unless lacy bras and crotchless underwear is now considered couture? Didn't think so. But it's that time of year again, the time where we all drive ourselves mad searching for that perfect card that has the right balance of sultry and sweet. The time where our new year's resolutions to shed those extra holiday pounds, are put to rest thanks to cheap chocolates, that is, if they ever were even alive. And for those of us who don't have a Valentine, it's the time of the year that the ulcers begin to form as solitude suddenly becomes a crisis while we indulge in pints of Ben & Jerry's Chunky Monkey dreaming of David Beckham topless and/or Mila Kunis nude and ask ourselves-What's wrong with me? Why am I single today, of all days? Am I really THAT unattractive? And then there's those of us who repeatedly chant to ourselves that it's just a commercial holiday meant for corporate America, even though the lack of tacky teddy bears embroidered with 'I love you' and bouquet of roses that will be dead by the next morning, slowly eats away at us. And trust me, I'm as guilty as the next of all of the above. But in all honesty, the whole I love you forever-or just long enough until I can get into your pants and have a great story to tell at the office on Monday- Valentine's day love LUST situation, isn't all that grand. Being OUT of love on Cupid's holiday, is actually tres chic. Here's why:<br />1- Ya know those 24 hour sappy love movie marathons that you hate to love, but can't resist? Without the attachment of a nagging man, you and your girls can freely enjoy! So go ahead ladies, drool over the celebrity eye-candy, we won't judge.<br />2- You won't have to worry about which heels to wear with that little black dress. The only fashion crisis you may run into is whether to wear your black or blue sweats. Does it really get any better than that?<br />3- Extravagant dining will not be on your list of activities for the night, and your thighs will thank you for that.<br />4- The faux smile and "Thank you, I love it!" that you've got rehearsed, won't need to come into play. <br />5- It may just be a bear and some chocolates, but America seems to believe that just because a stuffed animal is stitched with dingy red hearts and silly little sayings, it should double in price. One of the biggest pros about not having a Valentine, is the fact that you will actually be to able to pay your bills in the month of February AND splurge on those sky-high stilettos you've been lusting for. Thank you nonexistent lover! </center>Meghan Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11001432294502745255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4533654413717656013.post-27598176687668119532012-02-14T21:26:00.000-08:002012-02-14T21:27:26.164-08:00Sweet IntentionsJust kiss me goodbye and be on your way, it’s the easiest solution for these cruel games I play. I make them fall and swoon, and then I flee. A jester, at best, is what I make them to be. But who am I to do so? As I’m a mere peasant, or worse, a thief..a criminal. I’m no better, matter of fact, I am far below. Subjected to the pillory for good intent, but shameful execution of my heart’s aim. But it’s all for the sake and protection of myself; my emotions are the ones to blame. A heart twice my body isn’t an easy organ to possess. It weighs heavy on my head, heavy on my chest. You see, those with the biggest hearts hurt others the most because it takes triple the love to repair the damage. Only they are capable of being so destructive to someone they love, and not only bandage the wound, but heal it entirely.Meghan Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11001432294502745255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4533654413717656013.post-91523070046130400562012-01-24T20:32:00.000-08:002012-01-24T20:52:05.852-08:00I Take thee to be my Lawfully Wedded Wife..Sometimes I feel like I have a loyalty to fashion, a bond that, if broken, I will be submitted to the hounds of hell. It's almost like I am married to style, fashion and designers and we have this unspoken vow to one another that til death due us part, we shall remain committed. And even in the fiery pits of hell, because we all know that's where the style slaves end up, we mustn't part from one another. This attachment to fashion is slightly an obligation, but without the force. It's a dedication that I feel I not only owe to the industry, but I owe to myself. Throughout all of my darkest days, (and God only knows there's been a plethora of them), the one consistency in my life has always been style. People have fled, pets have died, money has diminished, but the spirit of style has stayed faithful to me regardless of the situation. It's kind of romantic in a cheesy, disgusting way if you ask me. Fashion and I, we've been through our rough patches, but our unconditional attachment and love for one another has remained. There's something really comforting about having one thing in your life that will never part from you and that you can pour every ounce of your energy, frustration, ecstasy, urgency and heart into. It makes the nights of solitude, sitting, sipping a glass of Pinot feel like a personal party for two.Meghan Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11001432294502745255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4533654413717656013.post-10467480420249415142011-05-25T17:32:00.000-07:002011-05-25T17:33:32.205-07:00Galloping Through Graveyards<center> Simply channeling my inner demon <br> <a href="http://s291.photobucket.com/albums/ll312/nuttbutt23/?action=view&current=SAM_9544modified.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i291.photobucket.com/albums/ll312/nuttbutt23/SAM_9544modified.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a> <a href="http://s291.photobucket.com/albums/ll312/nuttbutt23/?action=view&current=SAM_9560.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i291.photobucket.com/albums/ll312/nuttbutt23/SAM_9560.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a> <a href="http://s291.photobucket.com/albums/ll312/nuttbutt23/?action=view&current=SAM_9572.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i291.photobucket.com/albums/ll312/nuttbutt23/SAM_9572.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a> <a href="http://s291.photobucket.com/albums/ll312/nuttbutt23/?action=view&current=SAM_9562.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i291.photobucket.com/albums/ll312/nuttbutt23/SAM_9562.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a> </center>Meghan Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11001432294502745255noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4533654413717656013.post-25058798160357694012011-05-25T07:24:00.000-07:002011-05-25T07:33:42.060-07:00If Vision Is The Only Validation, Then Most Of My Life Isn't Real<center> <a href="http://s291.photobucket.com/albums/ll312/nuttbutt23/?action=view&current=SAM_9520.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i291.photobucket.com/albums/ll312/nuttbutt23/SAM_9520.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a> <a href="http://s291.photobucket.com/albums/ll312/nuttbutt23/?action=view&current=SAM_9521.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i291.photobucket.com/albums/ll312/nuttbutt23/SAM_9521.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a> <a href="http://s291.photobucket.com/albums/ll312/nuttbutt23/?action=view&current=SAM_9529.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i291.photobucket.com/albums/ll312/nuttbutt23/SAM_9529.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a> <a href="http://s291.photobucket.com/albums/ll312/nuttbutt23/?action=view&current=SAM_9524.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i291.photobucket.com/albums/ll312/nuttbutt23/SAM_9524.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a> <a href="http://s291.photobucket.com/albums/ll312/nuttbutt23/?action=view&current=SAM_9534.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i291.photobucket.com/albums/ll312/nuttbutt23/SAM_9534.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a> </center>Meghan Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11001432294502745255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4533654413717656013.post-29652381612474971522011-05-24T06:47:00.000-07:002011-05-24T07:19:57.302-07:00Rock N' Dream<center> One of my main basis for dressing is faking it; morphing yourself into someone or even something you want to be. Whether it be a rockstar, a guy, a mermaid, a lion; style to me is all about expressing your inner desires and reflecting your inner dreams and emotions in your physical appearance. I personally have this never-ending dream of becoming a stage stomping, song devouring, greatly worshiped rockstar where fans are literally throwing themselves at me and scouring around to just get a whiff of my post-show stage stench. However, my lack of vocal abilities and severe case of tone deafness, is putting a slight damper on my aspiration. For now though, my rhinestoned hairbrush and sequined attire is surprisingly fulfilling when it comes to assisting in my fantasy. So for this look, that's what it was all about; embodying my desire to be something that I may not technically be, but happen to feel like internally resulting slightly in a grunged out, hookerfied Hannah Montana or a scandalous glam rock Barbie. <br> <a href="http://s291.photobucket.com/albums/ll312/nuttbutt23/?action=view&current=SAM_9460.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i291.photobucket.com/albums/ll312/nuttbutt23/SAM_9460.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a> <a href="http://s291.photobucket.com/albums/ll312/nuttbutt23/?action=view&current=SAM_9486.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i291.photobucket.com/albums/ll312/nuttbutt23/SAM_9486.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a> <a href="http://s291.photobucket.com/albums/ll312/nuttbutt23/?action=view&current=SAM_9462.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i291.photobucket.com/albums/ll312/nuttbutt23/SAM_9462.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a> <a href="http://s291.photobucket.com/albums/ll312/nuttbutt23/?action=view&current=SAM_9481.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i291.photobucket.com/albums/ll312/nuttbutt23/SAM_9481.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a> <a href="http://s291.photobucket.com/albums/ll312/nuttbutt23/?action=view&current=SAM_9487.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i291.photobucket.com/albums/ll312/nuttbutt23/SAM_9487.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a> </center>Meghan Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11001432294502745255noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4533654413717656013.post-63899348973819856882011-05-21T08:23:00.000-07:002011-05-21T08:24:11.758-07:00She’s got heartbreak, his dad just died. You see that girl all caked up? It’s to conceal countless tears she’s cried. The boy over there; all grimaced and grudged, he can’t remember the last time someone showed him some love. What’s your story? We’ve all got one to tell. What’s your dream? Throw your coin in the wishing well. It’ll get better, just maybe not today, tomorrow’s hope can cleanse the hurt of yesterday. I promise you you’re not alone in this battle called life, we can all unite to fight the pain and strife.Meghan Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11001432294502745255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4533654413717656013.post-70730506908902187252011-05-20T08:17:00.000-07:002011-05-24T06:47:05.382-07:00Down The Rabbit Hole<center> So I'm completely addicted to Alice In Wonderland's whole dreamland, world of fantasy theme portrayed throughout the movie, but as much as I would love to say this outfit's inspiration was derived from that movie, I can't. Basically, I just threw this look together and the entire night I was getting told I could pass as Alice's twisted step sister, which of course, enthralled me and so I ran with the comparisons. As dainty as the pieces are, there's still something haunting about the look in it's entirety, which essentially means that this outfit IS me, and I'm okay with that.<br> <a href="http://s291.photobucket.com/albums/ll312/nuttbutt23/?action=view&current=meg289-1.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i291.photobucket.com/albums/ll312/nuttbutt23/meg289-1.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a> <a href="http://s291.photobucket.com/albums/ll312/nuttbutt23/?action=view&current=meg296-1.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i291.photobucket.com/albums/ll312/nuttbutt23/meg296-1.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a> <a href="http://s291.photobucket.com/albums/ll312/nuttbutt23/?action=view&current=meg295-1.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i291.photobucket.com/albums/ll312/nuttbutt23/meg295-1.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a> <a href="http://s291.photobucket.com/albums/ll312/nuttbutt23/?action=view&current=meg326-1.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i291.photobucket.com/albums/ll312/nuttbutt23/meg326-1.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a> </center>Meghan Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11001432294502745255noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4533654413717656013.post-82400345091190771312011-05-04T19:24:00.000-07:002011-05-24T06:46:54.810-07:00Do It Like A Dude<center> *Cue Jessie J* So I've always had this bizarre dream, as well as intuition, that in a past life I more than likely was a boy. More specifically, an obnoxiously flamboyant gay boy (okay, so I don't know if that necessarily counts as a male, but in my world, it does.) But unfortunately, I'm stuck in this body that the universe identifies as female, but that doesn't mean I can't play dress up every now and again and throw on a pair of dress slacks and loafers, right? So here's my rendition of an over-the-top, excessively shiny, sexuality questioning, boy. <br><br /><a href="http://s291.photobucket.com/albums/ll312/nuttbutt23/?action=view&current=Megg106modified.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i291.photobucket.com/albums/ll312/nuttbutt23/Megg106modified.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a> <a href="http://s291.photobucket.com/albums/ll312/nuttbutt23/?action=view&current=Megg114-1.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i291.photobucket.com/albums/ll312/nuttbutt23/Megg114-1.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a> <a href="http://s291.photobucket.com/albums/ll312/nuttbutt23/?action=view&current=Megg116-1.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i291.photobucket.com/albums/ll312/nuttbutt23/Megg116-1.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a> <a href="http://s291.photobucket.com/albums/ll312/nuttbutt23/?action=view&current=Megg101modified.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i291.photobucket.com/albums/ll312/nuttbutt23/Megg101modified.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a> </center>Meghan Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11001432294502745255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4533654413717656013.post-51318568353629931802011-03-28T07:33:00.002-07:002011-03-28T07:34:14.652-07:00Walking on a Dream<center>Often I find myself thinking: sometimes about life, sometimes about fantasy, sometimes about my future. But lately, the one thought that I can't seem to get off of my mind is the concept of location. Late at night, once a shadow of darkness has painted my room black and the only sounds that seem to be circulating throughout my secluded sanctuary are noises of my mind gently whispering to me, I rest my head full of blonde tresses onto my pillow and evaluate. Frequently, I have been proposing the question, "Meghan, if you could be anywhere in the world, where would you be?" upon myself. Then, as I lay there, staring at the ceiling imagining that I have X-ray vision and can miraculously see right through the roof to catch a glimpse of the constellations, my mind wanders off into some fictional world, almost like an unwritten story book loaded with pictures of palaces, royalty, the world, and divine clothing creations that the supreme fashion god (whoever that may be) has created. And the only words in this book, are adjectives and verbs-no sentence structure, no nouns, no punctuation, just free, unattached words. Once my mind has accessed this parallel brain of mine, I contemplate the question of "Where would I be?"<br />New York? I ask myself. The city is thriving with interesting people, favorable fashions, beautiful culture, and fascinating history. But no, New York just doesn't cut it.<br />Then I ask, Paris? It is the fashion capital of the world and the polar opposite of Florida. But still, I always seem to shoot down that location as well.<br />Japan? It is drenched in cultures that I have never encountered, ranks quite high in uniqueness, and the hardcore street fashion is to die for. Yet, my mind doesn't seem to agree with that idea either.<br />Suddenly, by some force of nature, I have this sudden realization that if I could be anywhere at all, the only place that I could dream of calling my home would be one of the most divine places to ever exist; in Alexander McQueen's mind (a girl can dream can't she?) Some people say, "I would love to be in *insert name here*'s mind for ten minutes." But no, I would love to eternally live in this man's mind. To be in the middle of the darkness, fantasy, imagination, and emotions his brain conjurers, well it would be indescribable, so therefore I am not going to even say any adjectives because I know that they do not have the ability to measure up to him, and will essentially seem childlike and low-brow, which is something that I do not want. <br />But honestly, could you envision nuzzling up in that precious little brain of his and calling that HOME? It would be very unproductive I imagine. I know all I would do is just cuddle up in a pile of his bumsters and impeccably tailored dresses from the McQueen archives while munching on popcorn, basking in the glory of each design idea that would pour into his brain. I also believe it would get rather cluttered in there, but I would gladly roll into a little ball, almost like some tiny creature and just plant myself into the smallest nook and cranny I could find, because let's face it, his ideas are much much more important than I am. <br />Too bad my imagination is far too big for reality. Maybe Disney could build a new theme park; McQueen's Mind? I would be an avid visitor, or I suppose I could just live there! Ya know, hide in the trash cans while security does their nightly checks? Dear Walt, take it into consideration.<br />We still miss you McQueen<3 </center>Meghan Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11001432294502745255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4533654413717656013.post-80921876544824461052011-03-28T07:33:00.001-07:002011-05-24T06:46:42.957-07:00Army Allure<center>Want to hear a little story? Well I suppose you don't really have a choice now do you? Once upon a time, I was a mini-diva with a blonde bob, a feather boa draped around my neck, and plastic heels confined to my feet. Then there was my brother; the pyromaniac child who would throw those little army green toy soldiers into the family bon fires while enthusiastically chanting "Die, die, die!" And then one day, with the inspiration of my brother (and designer Balmain), I realized that his days of scorching toy soldiers was a superb muse for a very androgynous and marvelous outfit. <br />For a while, I have been openly addicted to the military trend that consumes every glossy page of <s>magazines</s> the bible. Every time I see a picture of a military inspired editorial, or just a page that I feel is reminiscent of the army, my first instinct is to tear it out and store it in my nightstand drawer for safe-keeping. You should just see how many tear-outs I have stashed in that drawer, it's kind of sickening. It's gotten to the point where it is so bad, that I feel kind of like a pre-pubescent boy hiding nuddie magazines. But back to the military look- it evokes strength, power, dignity, and let's admit it, makes even the daintiest woman, look certifiably bad ass. But I'm not referring to just throwing on a pair of leather boots with any ordinary dress, which just so happens to be another one of my never ending addictions. I'm talking about the full blown military inspired pieces, with the endless army green, the structured jackets, and then comes the leather in any form; boots, leggings, shorts.<br /> For my outfit, I meshed my brother and I's childhood personas, combining his toy soldier state of mind, with my diva-ness, which translated in my opinion, fabulously. I donned a silver sequin dress with an army green mid thigh length jacket, tall leather boots, and then as usual, piled on the over sized rings. I was expecting witty little comments from my classmates about looking like a military Barbie doll, which I would have gladly accepted, but surprisingly, they all responded very well to the look. For some odd reason, all day I sort of felt like a confused gay guy; he knows that he is gay and just wants to frolic around in sequins while dispersing glitter, but for the sake of concealing his true identity, must wear masculine coats and speak in a low tone. Maybe that's why I loved the look so much..I'm not really sure though. All I know is that I am thirsting for some more military staples, the one jacket and leather boots, is just not cutting it!<br /><br /><br /><br> <br /><a href="http://s291.photobucket.com/albums/ll312/nuttbutt23/?action=view&current=3934107933.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i291.photobucket.com/albums/ll312/nuttbutt23/3934107933.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a> <a href="http://s291.photobucket.com/albums/ll312/nuttbutt23/?action=view&current=3934107928.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i291.photobucket.com/albums/ll312/nuttbutt23/3934107928.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><a href="http://s291.photobucket.com/albums/ll312/nuttbutt23/?action=view&current=3934107927.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i291.photobucket.com/albums/ll312/nuttbutt23/3934107927.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a> <a href="http://s291.photobucket.com/albums/ll312/nuttbutt23/?action=view&current=3934107920.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i291.photobucket.com/albums/ll312/nuttbutt23/3934107920.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a> </center>Meghan Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11001432294502745255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4533654413717656013.post-63950605593055247132011-03-28T07:30:00.000-07:002011-03-28T07:31:22.920-07:00Right On Pointe<center>Maybe I'm a bit biased, being a former ballerina and all, but I could go on for days talking about how much I admire ballet inspired pieces. I would easily swap my harsh color palette of black, black, and black for the dainty pastel pinks, stone grays, and crisp whites that accompany ballerina influenced items of clothing. Everything about the look just seems so hopelessly romantic, effortless, and whimsical. A woman draped in icy pinks and a touch of tulle just screams to me that she can gracefully conquer the world, and only with a flick of fairy dust and a pirouette or two. Pair this look with a masculine blazer, leather boots, or simply something studded and you've got the perfect mix of pretty gritty. But in all honesty, you could strut around in just a pastel pink lacey blouse, sans pants, and I guarantee you that I would drop to my knees and bow-it's just all around brilliant! Makes me wish that my days of insecurely prancing around in teeny leotards, hours spent at the ballet bar, the permanent dent in my hair from always wearing a slicked back bun, and the bleeding from pointe shoes were still existent. Well enough rambling about memory lane, here's the trend at its finest. <br> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8-rrAg65TaPyeImRWRE6sMvKNT2ARr_6S2xqPWADZWunZkFLZ_C8KZlZHK3hkRctzNiD-BGQ6ok5p8gtXnUDh8I6wCbW_zQSmHFxisY9H5vyLVHsGKLzFD6GuLPGclV-20Fj59ItYWKE/s1600-h/chanel-ballerina01.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 275px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8-rrAg65TaPyeImRWRE6sMvKNT2ARr_6S2xqPWADZWunZkFLZ_C8KZlZHK3hkRctzNiD-BGQ6ok5p8gtXnUDh8I6wCbW_zQSmHFxisY9H5vyLVHsGKLzFD6GuLPGclV-20Fj59ItYWKE/s400/chanel-ballerina01.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439442921787745682" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR64DdVM666TOtgfJFGdJVuYrmtEqPz1zfQ8u7EXXnScdCNlz_LrRBssw3v9O3Lh_5Yu2LlW-4BzH5vOkxHPWxcu6cC6ambuknJ9QxOCNoz3n296lhIeOUU2vmr5YhVHs-9Y4Vc4szTIQ/s1600-h/ilikeyourcardigan.blogspot.com"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 311px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR64DdVM666TOtgfJFGdJVuYrmtEqPz1zfQ8u7EXXnScdCNlz_LrRBssw3v9O3Lh_5Yu2LlW-4BzH5vOkxHPWxcu6cC6ambuknJ9QxOCNoz3n296lhIeOUU2vmr5YhVHs-9Y4Vc4szTIQ/s400/ilikeyourcardigan.blogspot.com" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439444636332537282" /></a><br><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK7G09tnVhZGeTZoko06JTTfl-OA1VxgCjxJUff6e7Zz1NUCtSFPZZYpP_-FibjnAEioAN-3YwMa-njfOv0LbIAkIOAMPqcbOIvRc3oclRYowAxvfc1YXWRBPbGwpL8-vWY5Ii2sSmUJU/s1600-h/swedish-elle-11-big1+lostinaspotlessmind.wordpress.com"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK7G09tnVhZGeTZoko06JTTfl-OA1VxgCjxJUff6e7Zz1NUCtSFPZZYpP_-FibjnAEioAN-3YwMa-njfOv0LbIAkIOAMPqcbOIvRc3oclRYowAxvfc1YXWRBPbGwpL8-vWY5Ii2sSmUJU/s400/swedish-elle-11-big1+lostinaspotlessmind.wordpress.com" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439442915824335378" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCDFYyZfjw1jkskT2xwTE-vjFU6K9SFaZHbA-GjZB2EwajMAIh2YUm5S8sjG1I1DMnebZnwPEL3WZKoVa7i1-oXB67WcEyUC4yzz22d89r6bGV4E43h45-yqtz4R58QA19dgPad6hkylM/s1600-h/swedish-elle-10-big.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCDFYyZfjw1jkskT2xwTE-vjFU6K9SFaZHbA-GjZB2EwajMAIh2YUm5S8sjG1I1DMnebZnwPEL3WZKoVa7i1-oXB67WcEyUC4yzz22d89r6bGV4E43h45-yqtz4R58QA19dgPad6hkylM/s400/swedish-elle-10-big.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439442911996035682" /></a><br><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidS-eDJmB1ixpoBbpwMwxxhoSo7KoWewDSFjQl7Y4zZSj4l8LGQe9FynSVFnaWdMT0eahyWk1RJr4M4dhs9ClfyFFf2qvkdXnpDkVdn6Ci9riGjOobQNOT6ob1VrbxESlCPAoG-rEHFJs/s1600-h/swedish-elle-1-big.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidS-eDJmB1ixpoBbpwMwxxhoSo7KoWewDSFjQl7Y4zZSj4l8LGQe9FynSVFnaWdMT0eahyWk1RJr4M4dhs9ClfyFFf2qvkdXnpDkVdn6Ci9riGjOobQNOT6ob1VrbxESlCPAoG-rEHFJs/s400/swedish-elle-1-big.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439442907223848690" /></a><br><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFb7cj5PqvpGSUZoXEqgacpKvbqRXnwdTrWtk4ksqlgVRED53hbPMmTJW6xXjVb2jRm3jON3gOSWp5zF0Mr8-Hq0w61-ibpp9tSn1cLv-_XTBl1Tgp84TSLWUuBqOfqwzqki4fIIxSXyw/s1600-h/ballet-fashion-3.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 367px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFb7cj5PqvpGSUZoXEqgacpKvbqRXnwdTrWtk4ksqlgVRED53hbPMmTJW6xXjVb2jRm3jON3gOSWp5zF0Mr8-Hq0w61-ibpp9tSn1cLv-_XTBl1Tgp84TSLWUuBqOfqwzqki4fIIxSXyw/s400/ballet-fashion-3.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439442902284512242" /></a><br><br /></center>Meghan Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11001432294502745255noreply@blogger.com0