So in the past few days I've been caring less and less of other's opinions of me.

Specifically fashion-wise.

Yesterday, I slept in super-dee-duper late and refused to emerge from my footie pajamas for the duration of the day. This was brought into question only once: when I was chosen to fetch our to-go order.

What to do? The kitty faces on my tootsies weren't going to fit in any of my normal shoes, and the one pair of boots that might have fit were prevented from allowing my foot passage due to the grippy-things on the soles of the feet.

Any way, long story abbreviated, I decided upon bedroom shoes over my footie pajamas in the rain.

I still stand by this decision.

Today, I am wearing my kooky grammas poncho from the '70s-- orange with white striped edges. I dig it and it's every ounce of comfort I could hope for in an overcoat (much like my greatest Christmas present this year, a leopard print 1930 lady's cape, but I'm sure I'll gush about that garment in a later blog).

Anyways, I've come to the realization that when people judge me and laugh at me, it changes neither them nor me. It simply solidifies that I am a slightly unusual person and that they feel better by picking on me.

Eh, I'd rather be me.