Clothing had always been a way for me to both hide from the world and carve out some sort of prominence and status in it. I’d use clothes to shield me from whatever anxieties I possessed. Better you notice this rare and expensive-ass fucking shirt on my chest and these shoes on my feet than my face or my head or my teeth. Also I hoped that clothes would do such a great job concealing these imperfections that they’d effectively replace me—that people would be so enamored with and impressed by my clothes and my fashion sense and the money I must possess to be able to afford them that it would
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