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Eva B. Friperie

February 11, 2011

Eva B.

(Also, sorry, I have to point this out or it’ll kill me – they spelt “immediately” wrong.)

It’s like a cross between the bedroom of a madcap heiress with a little too much artistic endowment and everywhere to put it, and a precocious five years old child who one day decided that they’ll amass the largest collection of clothes the world has ever seen. Eva B. actually has a pit of clothes in the back, each article a dollar. Remember those ball pits that you pretended to love when you were five but you secretly hated because they seemed like cruel and unusual ways to suffocate and drown at the same time? It’s absolutely nothing like that. Unless you really loved them as a child because you were less anxious and uptight than me, in that case they’re exacty like that. It’s a pit of clothes. I’ve spent afternoons conducting archaeological digs trying to find the bottom. Along the way, I unearthed ripped up beach pants, Abercrombie and Fitch sweaters from when they were an outdoor goods store, discarded prom dresses, stripper heels, faded t-shirts with advertisements on them, good quality childrens trousers, moth-eaten cardigans, countless white shirts, Harris Tweed jackets, hippie maxi dresses, trendy mini-dresses, and on one slightly bizarre occasion – an airport security uniform shirt.

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