Look, you know things are grim when your friend is wearing what appears to be a salute to Bret Michaels (hey, I love him too, so I feel her), and yet people are still talking about you. In the name of sweet crustless sandwiches, why Mischa, WHY?
I have started a variety of sentences in this space in an attempt to capture my reaction to this, and they have all begun in the exact same way: I don’t. I don’t understand; I don’t get it; I don’t know what is going on here; I don’t feel comfortable with this; I don’t think this is a good idea; I don’t believe someone would actually buy this in the real world (sorry, Miu Miu) and yet apparently I was wrong about that; I don’t know why no one has come into my office to hold me yet, as I clearly need gentle handling in the wake of being confronted with this trauma, etc. In other words: Mischa, I CAN’T.