Night of the Living Fashionistas

I’ve never understood the reasoning behind using vaguely unpleasant-looking models to sell you products that are supposed to make you look good. Here, we have a spotty, emaciated waif whose hair had been subjected to the suction of a jet engine, dressed in a shirt resewn from the fabric found on construction signs, and wearing a watch that declares “I am a goofball.” And this is supposed to make me want to wear Prada?

I know this: whatever disease those shoes have, it’s probably contagious.