With 11 weeks left until this glorified decade completes, I’ve tripped, fell, and crash landed into this weird state of finally achieving comfort with myself as a human being.
I’ve always been interested in all things self expression, and like most of us, it’s been a long, awkward journey. I recall being 15 years old asking my mother to buy me a Sky blue hoodie outside the store. Or when I travelled to San Francisco in 09, a year prior, in awe of buying a pair of Nike LeBron’s. Which I loved despite basketball being somewhat dorky in Australia.
Fast forward to now, in retrospect- all the crimes, successes & awful choices were apart of a grander scheme to get to where I am today. I’m not an aspiring influencer, or a person in the industry, I simply present myself to you today as a normal guy who just gives a shit about appearance. Socially, professionally and romantically.
I’m currently in the sticky city of Bangkok, breezing in and out of traffic on motorbikes wearing linen, loose knit shirts and sandals. A block ahead my two high school equivalents are collecting copious quantities of backsweat in their cotton tees and sneakers.
“The only long pair of pants I bought was jeans— I don’t want to look like I shop at Zara” - Actual quote, by Tom.
Early twenties : the beardless years.
Brad Pitt Fury undercut.
Mac Miller off illegal downloads!!
Vans.
Indonesian tiger bracelet from a ten-year-old kid at a diner on Gili T island. I remember my ex saying I overpaid for it. In hindsight I should’ve bought 3 more.
Always hoodies. Nike and Adidas everything.
Tarantino & Nolan films.
An oversized white Ralph Lauren Oxford button down that I still wear to this day.
I remember Kanye West dropping the Yeezys. Luckily never copped those. However, I was a victim of the distressed trend. RIP. Literally.
I decorated my first apartment like Harvey Spectre from Temu. I tossed the black leather lounge, kept the silver chrome Pixar lamp.
Mid twenties : Finally growing into my body.
Plain Jane faded haircut.
Nike AirForce 1’s in white leather.
Playing poker every Friday night.
Black Ksubi denim, slim fit. Shudders.
RayBan Clubmasters.
I began my love affair with Dickies socks, the greatest socks to ever exist.
Denim jacket with genuine blood stains.
Punk rock albums off YouTube while I’m home cooking.
Plaid shirts, all the fucking time.
Black suede Chelsea boots that used to be a legitimate sex symbol for a few years if I remember correctly?
Caterpillar Bucket hats. For all things beach and bush.
Dating women like a dickhead.
Late twenties : Long hair, do not care.
Guerlain IDÉAL cologne.
Casio WR watch.
Any TV series set in 2000’s LA. O.C, Entourage, Californication.
Axel Arigato sneakers. We moved on from Nikes. Be proud of me.
RayBans 3498s. Wear these 24/7.
Linen shirts, shorts and pants.
Fred again… house music.
Sony XM-4 headphones, because shut up.
Wine at all times. Whites by day, Reds by night.
Reading Tony Bourdain & Stanley Tucci food books.
Actually dating women properly.
I guess its time for a full admin reveal…
Zachary is what my mother calls me. I live in Sydney with my 3 year old English bulldog and work as an electrician for the train network. I’m 6’1, in a relationship with a girl from London, and a Gemini if that matters to you.
My humblest thanks if you have made it this far, feel free to subscribe as I plan to be cooking up some more opinion pieces on a tri-monthly basis.
Adios amigas.
And remember,
Fuck instagram.
Z