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It has come to be lately that I am questioning my place in life. Not that there's anything wrong with being unemployed and living with my mom, but maybe there's something bigger than that for me.
I spend my mornings browsing vintage and thrift shops for bargains and my afternoons flipping through fashion magazines and staring in horrified wonder at the latest looks.
And one day I thought, "If only I could somehow combine my two great loves, shopping and criticising, that would be the best job ever!" and much like the chocolate-in-my-peanut-butter tale of old, it dawned on me: I could be a fashion advisor!
Who better suited than me? No one! I already have experience! It's a little known fact that I'm the one who suggested "big pants" to Ben Brown, and "underwear" to Dakota Smith. And have you seen me? God, I'm like a fashion goddess!
And so decided: I packed up my car, bought an atlas and headed west, to Los Angeles, because my god, no one needs it more than those nouveau riche celebrity types. You know who I'm talking about (this means you, Cameron Diaz and your horrible, horrible hats!).
But what about you, moneyless internet surfer? You also have no taste, so don't you deserve my help? Of course! So stand up, dust off those cheet-oh crumbs and let's get going!
Alright, I'm lying, we're not actually going anywhere. You just looked gross there, covered in cheese powder. Have some respect, man.
Andrea Spencer is only half joking