Fine Line // H.S.

69

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Camp.

What the hell does that even mean?

Nobody seems to know, and neither do I.

I'm an author for fucks sake! I'm supposed to know what camp means, but this year's Met Gala theme is completely beyond me.

So, of course I took it upon myself to look it up and literally found nothing but bullshit about being outlandish but fencing it in, something about Art Nouveau (whatever that is), and apparently it's not intentional unless it's extremely intentional. Basically camp is just a bunch of contradictions within itself, so my stylist and I had a job ahead.

I came to the ultimate decision that I should do what I always do when I can't figure something out for myself, which is the total bane of my existence.

I'm just gonna wing it.

And when I say wing it... I quite literally mean wing it.

Butterflies represent metamorphosis. The beautiful winged creatures are a show of transformation from one thing to another.

In many ways, I am like a butterfly. It took awhile and a lot of persistence towards myself and my own stubborn mind, but eventually I was able to shed my old timid skin and shift into something else- my truest, most beautiful form. Once I achieved that, I was able to fly high amongst the other summertime butterflies that had been waiting with unmatched patience for me to join them.

The massive black van I sit in the back of houses my massive dress and the deep nerves I feel at stupidly allowing Christine to book me the last red carpet spot of the night. Keeping my phone clutched in my clammy palms, I've spent the past two hours watching everyone on a livestream from the likes of Lady Gaga to my own friends such as Harry Styles and Kendall Jenner grace the steps of the Met.

My turn is coming up quick, Zendaya's dress lighting up my eyes when the door to my van slides open.

As I step down carefully, silver heels glisten with each snap of the flashbulbs. My long braid, intertwined with small bejeweled flowers, falls carelessly over my shoulder while the loose wisps framing my face blow in the fresh air, a whiff of my own gardenia scented perfume wafting beneath my pearly nose.

With each click of my shoes against the pavement, muffling slightly upon reaching the plush pink carpet, my dress, dazzling white at the hem before seamlessly meshing into a brilliant sea blue, brushes the ground before I use my shiny painted nails to lift it slightly as I walk. The intricate silver designs that wind around the fabric represent the lines of a butterfly's wings, and the small stars glisten like the bright irises of my eyes.