Okay, I'm back with it. Project Runway has won me over again. I would give anything to be a contestant.
I want to be Laura. I want to wear suits every day for no other reason than to mock soccer-moms and assert my own superiority. I want to lament about the trials and tribulations of raising five children, even though I obviously employ the assistance of nannies, whom I terrorize and occasionally reduce to tears. I want to trim everything I wear with real fur made from dead animals, yet regard adorable household pets as vermin not to be touched. I want to pick fights with "shitheads" just for kicks.
I want to be Michael. I want to talk about designing dresses as if I am talking smack on a basketball court. I want to congratulate myself constantly and repeatedly acknowledge my own talents, yet somehow still be likeable and get away with it. I want to be Laura's temporarily-adopted son, so she will stick up for me and yell at shitheads when they won't let me use the sewing machine. I want to constantly surprise the hell out of everyone by repeatedly demonstrating the fact that I can, in fact, actually sew.
I want to be Jeffrey. I want to refer to my fellow designers' work as "macaroni art." I want to be the driving force who brings back the hand-buzzer. In case the fashion design thing doesn't work out, I want to always be dressed appropriately for an impromptu job as a roadie for OzFest.
I want to be Uli. I want to be the person who will most likely win the entire thing.
I want to be Vincent. I want to never be lonely, because the voices in my head will keep me company. I want to fall into fits of gleeful laughter at the sight of hats. I want to scream everything I say. Oh wait, I already do.
I want to be Bradley. I want to have a pipe strapped under my design table so I can take hits whenever the cameras are off filming Vincent while he chases shiny things. Even if I get a bad high, implode with the pressure of the competition, and stick my head in the sand and give up. Then the judges will think I'm interesting for the show, so they'll make up something nice to say just to keep me around, even though they are bad actors and obviously don't believe the words that are coming out of their own mouths. Because my dress really was ass-ugly. Whatever, anything for another week, must not get kicked off before Skittle-Skirt Angela.
I want to be Kayne. I want to possess the fierce, steely edge of competitiveness one can only develop after working with Oklahoma beauty-queenzillas. I want to have a collection of tiaras I secretly wear when no one is around. I want the ability to take any piece of fabric and sew the hell out of it, to the point the sewing machine will burst into flames. I want to have an absolutely flawless complexion. Wait, does he use makeup?
I want to be Keith. Just kidding, no I don't.
I want to be Robert. I want to be so cute I could just smush myself. I want to not really give a damn what happens in this competition and just have fun with it. I want to have a career designing clothes for Barbie dolls, which is undoubtedly listed on every "cool jobs" website in cyberspace. I want to be a big, nelly bottom. Oh wait, I already...well, you know.