Confessions of a teenage whore

JULIA TIERNAN/YH Jamil's wardrobe

I am forced into working the streets day and night, displaying my goods to everyone. I have been used, abused, and tricked by exorbitantly rich old men. My pimps are Ralph Lauren, Tom Ford, and Giorgio Armani.

I am the worst possible species of ho. I am a label whore.

To say that I am a fashion victim would be an egregious error in nomenclature. I am not simply a fashion victim. I have been beaten, stabbed, shot, and left to die at fashion's hands. It is difficult to pinpoint my attackers. Is it GQ and Details, Miuccia Prada and Helmut Lang, or is it my friends and classmates? I can't even recall how it began. I have hazy recollections...a navy Polo Sport jacket here, a stone pair of J. Crew khakis there.

Normally, these quiet, quality pieces would be surreptitiously integrated into a wardrobe and would mingle peacefully with the nondescript denizens--the T-shirts and jeans--of the closet. Unfortunately, my life must always be lived hyperbolically. I didn't just want the Polo pony one-pocket tee. I wanted 12-foot Courier font, bold and underlined, screaming "POLO SPORT" wrapped around my torso, crawling up my legs, and tattooed on my spleen. I wouldn't be satisfied with a leather belt with Prada discreetly stamped on the military buckle. I had to have four Prada belts, two bags, a wallet, coin purse--hell, I was contemplating the Prada tissue box holder. You can't fathom the frustration I felt as I explained to my mother that nothing--nothing--could grace my outer epidermal layer without a label. Check my underwear drawer if you don't believe me.

Although this is a shocking personal exposé, I am by no means the only logo slut on this campus. People feign shock at my pursuit of the elusive Comme de Garcons wallet or Marc Jacobs sweater, at my hoarding of the "who's who in fashion" lists, at the vitriol I direct against anything label-less in my presence. Yet it is quite clear that the students of Yale are just hos of a different color.

You can't possibly tell me that the parade of seven Jeep Grand Cherokees in a row on Lake Place (no joke) is not a form of label whoring. Or maybe the frats are just posing as car dealerships at night. I am aware that Science Hill is a trek. But is it truly necessary that every student have a North Face mountain climbing backpack, North Face technical shell, and North Face Ultrawick fleece? Clearly not. It is true that there is a preponderance of trees on this campus. Yet, it is highly dubious that a Patagucci synchilla fleece, Patagucci trek shorts, and the Patagucci laptop case are needed to brave this intrepid wilderness. I know for a fact that Tag Heuer and Tiffany are not the only watch and jewelry companies that exist. And remember, athletes, Nike and Adidas are the haute couture of the athletic set. I may come across as elitist, pretentious, insane, and trendy--but at least I am being up front about my label lusting.

Trust me, being a label whore is not an easy job. Imagine shopping for a sweater, looking for a pair of pants, even buying socks, and being trapped by your own fashion neuroses. Not only do my purchases have to have a label, they must also be the right kind of label; shameless gear-whoring must be executed correctly. Daily displays of Guess?, Aberzombie, Structure, Gap, Reebok, and Asics do not qualify you for brand tramp status. Basically, I have deemed these companies overtly whack--sorry. Although I am an ardent proponent of "walking billboard" glamour, I must draw the line at the aforementioned brands and just plain ugly gear.

Now, I am not just a person who has an affinity for a store or an admiration for a single designer. This is what makes me a label whore. I must know (in the Biblical sense) every single designer label that exists in the world, from J. Spew and Banana Repugnant to Costume National, Dries Van Noten, and Chanel. My closet has no favorites. It has one of everything. I almost became clinically depressed when I realized I did not have a piece from Helmut Lang. This hunger must be constantly satiated.

Being at Yale University, the illustrious paragon of academia that we all know it is, has forced me to tone down my ho-ing. "Why?" you must ask. There is no shopping here. Clearly, God has seen fit to smite me and my dirty addiction by dropping me in a place whose most upscale boutiques include G + G and Born and Raised USA. I have already stated my bias against Yale clothing--sorry, Boola Boola. And I will shop at Ann Taylor before I shop at the Gap. A boy can never have enough petite navy skirts.

Oh, city of New Haven, why must you insist on torturing this label whore so? My only remaining recourse is to go to The Edge and get that Prada tattoo on my spleen that I've always wanted.

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