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" March 31, 2008   Oh Margiela, Margiela, Margiela. Where for art thou Margiela? Like a faint echo carried by a Belgian current, I have answered the calls of a misunderstood designer, whose creations\u2013some complete with an instruction manual\u2013are worshiped by only a chosen few. Countless praises and adoration, I have proclaimed my undying love for you and in return, have received no free samples, no West Village store discount, no invitation to stand in front of your studio mirror and be your muse. So as the myth goes, I will banish myself to the deepest part of the forest\u2013or the urban equivalent, Reservoir Pond in Central Park\u2013to reject food (or late night eating) and grieve the pain of unrequited love. Hopefully, after a couple of weeks absent from my wardrobe diary, you will come to find me, pale and wasted away like an Eastern European pre-teen turned catwalk queen. At that time, I hope you don&amp;#039;t fall in love with your own reflection but me in a nude body suit with 80&amp;#039;s power shoulders and garbage disposal treated jeans. For now, I bid you adieu. No more trademark four white stitches on basic tees or black cardigans....well, at least till I can justify the $900 sticker price of those long black trouser-skirt concoctions that are sold out everywhere. "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
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