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I HATE color.

I’m happy with black and white.
The two go hand in hand with each other.

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When I was little, I was only allowed to watch classic black and white movies and TV shows. Yeah, I know that sounds pretentious. But I was a pretentious kid, so it worked.

I was banned from watching the colorful vomit of Disney Channel and Nickelodeon. I was fed on a strict diet of I Love Lucy.

lucy & ricky

This diet did not help my social life: I’d go to school, crack a joke I had heard Lucy say, and no one would laugh. They’d go back to giggling about Hannah Montana.
Who WERE these uncultured swines? Did no one understand my colorless yet mature humor?

I was terrible and painfully alone in the world, a struggling 7 year-old-poet, trapped in her universe of black and white prime time.

Little did I know that my years of old movies were the years where I developed a love for simplicity. To hell with Technicolor –– show me the film noirs, show me the film blancs! Who gives a damn about the color spectrum anyway!

My childhood gripes continued:

I was disgusted when Dorothy left her pristine black and white Kansas and entered the vibrant mess of Munchkin Land.

I became bothered by all the nail polishes that Sephora tried to sell to girls my age: a heinous mass of lavender, chartreuse, aquamarine, and magenta.

I set fire to my Crayola watercolor set and demanded “Mars Black” and “Titanium White” oil paints for Christmas. (This completed my tortured artist look.)

I stopped wearing colorful clothes. Bitch, I had an aesthetic. Catch me on the playground in my white knee-highs and black converse.

You can never go wrong with black and white.
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