Every time I get a glimpse of stylist Rachel Zoe’s bony chest beneath a giant yeti pelt vest, I literally—or “litrally,” as she says—have to look away. I avert my eyes quickly, much like I do when that starving children commercial with Laurie Metcalf pops up during my late-night cable trolling. I have to look away like Perseus did when he took on Medusa. I too fear turning to stone, but not because of Zoe’s snake-like locks.
It’s her sternum. I’m afraid that it’s going to poke and kill a random passerby. I could play the xylophone on her breast bone and ribs. She doesn’t need to wear one of her giant-ass necklaces; she’s already sporting a bone collar. Like a cross-section of wood, you can add up the rings to determine her age. And by the number of rings jutting out of her chest, she should stop saying, “I die,” because, by my count, she should already be dead.
Zero isn’t a size, it’s a sickness. Desiccate & Emaciate is not a new design label; it's an apt description of your dried-up husk. Stop saying “bananas” and start eating them…literally.