Gardening shoes are the new heels? + My Jakarta trip!

I just got back from a trip to Jakarta and i don’t want to be one of those people who endlessly talk about their vacations to other people who secretly want to punch them in the face for it but i have to say, it was liit. I went there with two other friends to attend the Djakarta Warehouse Project and eventhough, i still don’t know how Hardwell, DJ Snake, Zedd or Martin Garrix look like, i can at least say i danced to the point of dehydration to their beats. I also got tipsy and fell backwards on my ass while getting frisked by security but that’s another story.

Style-wise, i want to say i surprised myself just a little bit this trip. I brought two boots with me, both taking up at least two kgs in my suitcase, none of which i ended up wearing because: a) My knee-high lace-ups made me look like a hooker and b) the biker booties made me look…like a biker. Idek, don’t you just hate it when your outfits look way better in your head than it does in real life? And then you wear it and you look like a pumpkin.

In the end, i ended up wearing my white high-top sneakers 95% of entire trip, which was unexpected tbh because i’m really not a sneakers kinda gal, much less when i’m in Jakarta. But then again it made sense because there was no way in hell i was going to wear either of the boots into a mall. Like, if i already look like a hooker wearing the boots during a rave, can you just imagine me clomping around the mall in them?


Hurried #ootn for the first night of DWP, after a three-hour flight delay and an immigration scare. I don’t think any of us even really planned our outfits for the night. All we knew was that we’d wasted enough time during the day. We didn’t even have dinner ffs #neardeathexperience

Funny story: Because all the shoes that i’d brought with me were so chunky and because i was so tired of wearing sneakers and we had no time to go shopping during the first few days, i ended up borrowing a pair of matte black jelly flats from my friend at one point. And eventhough i knew in the back of my mind that they were hideous AF, i somehow managed to convince myself, in the name of convenience and extreme hunger, that i looked alright enough to leave the hotel.

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Literally me at Grand Indonesia. Hunger will make you do bad things.

It wasn’t until i was walking around the mall surrounded by all the glamorous socialites that i suddenly caught my reflection in a display window and realized how freaking hideous they were. I apologize in advance to the owner of the shoes who was so kind to lend them to me (I  love you, S!), but they legit looked like gardening shoes. Like, does this hoe look like i’m into gardening?! DO I LOOK LIKE A GARDENING HOE TO YOU. And to my friends who allowed me to walk beside them the entire time and even assured me that i looked cute, i don’t know if i should hug them or strangle them for being so nice/cruel.


Me, during dinner, trying to ignore the fact that i’m wearing lacerated industrial-sized condoms on my feet

I also ended up wearing bomber jackets a lot during the trip. I had a really bad cold within the first three days of our trip (probably something to do with repeatedly swimming in an ice-cold pool in the wee drunken hours of the morning). Plus, there’s also something about Indonesia that makes you feel not-stupid about wearing thick jackets out in the open, no matter if it’s leather or wool or whatever. It probably has to do with the locals’ strong, adamant belief of getting “masuk angin” (like, my boyfriend is Chindonesian and ohho, you do not want to argue with him about being “masuk angin”. It’s kind of how my dad’s answer to everything is to “drink more water” and “sleep early”. I could be all,

“Demitri, my shoulder really hurts”.

“I think you’re masuk angin”.

“Demsie, i have a headache”.

“Yeah, pasti masuk angin tu”.

“Demsie, i fell down just now”.

“Oh maybe lutut kamu masuk angin”.

“Demsie, i finished all my money”.

“Iya, pasti kamu tidur dibawah kipas kelmarin. Udah masuk angin tu”.


“Ya sudah, jangan banyak ngomong lagi, nanti tambah masuk angin”.)

So that’s how i ended up wearing bomber jackets a lot during the trip. Usually, to be completely honest, i steer clear away from structured jackets whenever possible, which is ironic, because i’m such a fan of cardigans. But cardigans are like the kind of comfortable aunties at a family gathering who give you sweets and share their desserts with you and who wink at you conspiratorially when telling dirty anecdotes… while structured jackets are more like the first cousin who’s just fully transitioned into puberty and refuses to acknowledge your presence eventhough you’ve known them since they were barely out of their mom’s vajayjays.

Cardigans make you feel good about yourself and make your arms feel loved and free while structured jackets, like those cousins, only make you feel cool when you’re holding a cigarette and bobbing your head to Foster The People or whatever mainstream non-mainstream band is hot right now with fifteen year olds, and are basically good for nothing else.


Jeez would it kill me to smile a little?

Pro-tip for busty, curvy girls who can’t find bomber jackets their size in the women’s seciton: Go to the men’s! They look exactly the same but feel 100% more comfortable. And, you can even move your arms! *gasp* Thanks for the suggestion, M!

I even wore a few crop tops this trip. I mean, i’m no stranger to “accidental” crop tops which is where you wear normal t-shirts, have a big lunch and then realize that your shirt suddenly lacks enough material to cover your food baby. But actual intentional crop tops, i usually try to stay away from. Until I realized that i don’t have to show my belly button to rock the midriff trend. I can just show a tiny sliver of skin from that area and still feel like a sexy Spice Girl. Anyway, belly buttons are icky (what do you even do with them? Clean them? Put an alcohol-soaked cotton swab to them? Play with them? Stuff them? Just eugh yuck).

Thanks for reading! And eventhough i am a total G R I N C H when it comes to festivities, merry Christmas and have a happy new year in advance ❤


The day i broke up with heels

I was looking through Instagram the other day and came across this picture on my feed that sent shudders through my spine. My knees quaked as i scrolled through as quickly as i could without dislocating my thumb.

Heels and i have had a complicated relationship. It wasn’t always like this. Once upon a time we were inseparable, a mere shell without the other, always standing together as one, hatching plans for world domination day after day as we pranced through sunflower fields.

Now we acknowledge each other with silent nods as we cross paths everyday on my way to my makeup table from my bathroom. I can feel the sting of the resentful gazes on their dusty, ashen faces as i take my pick of their stumpy, less flattering but more comfortable aunties. I turn away before they have time to say anything to me because what’s done is done. The damage irreparable, i try my best to be respectful to my heels and the good memories we shared but the truth is, i’ve already made up my mind. I’ve moved on.

Don’t call me, don’t send me dirty sole pics, don’t stumble to me at three in the morning after a drunken Thursday night at the polish bar, don’t spread rumors of how i only get a pedicure once a month and how cracked my heels are. Just don’t.


Our relationship first started twenty years ago when my mother ordered my first platform boots from a Next catalogue and waited patiently as they were flown in from the UK before presenting them to me (my mom was obviously the OG savage). I was four years old and i insisted on wearing them to kindergarten, holding my head up high as i stumbled and rolled around in the dust amidst non-stop falls.

They were my very first but far from my last and from then on it was the beginning of a beautiful relationship filled with plenty of ups and downs. Like, literally, because even with all my experience i was still clumsy af.

I went far with my heels. There were many, many of them but each and every one of them took me to a different place that i never would’ve gone without them.

For instance, a black pair of six-inch block heels took me to my high school principal’s office for an hour long bollocking. Another five-inch pair covered in smooth magenta silk took me into a ghetto ass drain as i stepped in a pothole on the way to my father’s car. A beautiful, slinky pair of slingbacks covered in discreet silver mesh took me by the ankle and rolled me down a flight of stairs as i distractedly fantasized about all the witty comebacks i would deliver to my ex-boyfriend if i ever bumped into him (in fact, I still have a deep-ass scar embedded on my shin four years later, you can ask to see it if you ever bump into me).

But, ironically, it was a pair of turquoise Adidas sneakers that ultimately did the both of us in for good.

UNNECESSARILY LONG RANT AHEAD OF THE ACTUAL REASON WHY I STOPPED WEARING HEELS (feel free to skim through lol): I went to a spinning class, fell down sixteen times during and after in the span of less than eight hours, tore a muscle, couldn’t pee or sit down without sobbing my eyes out for four weeks, had to shower with the door open and with clothes on in case i fell down, couldn’t bend my knees for three months after that which meant going down the stairs took ages and I constantly fell down on my knees with no warning at the most unpredictable moments (read: at the bottom step of the escalator at Huaho where i caused a commotion because idk maybe people thought i had an epiphany or something and needed a place to pray– which is what i like to believe happened since no one stopped to help me! #truestory. I couldn’t even get up on my own because my knees were still so weak so i just had to continue kneeling there and, like, pretend to pray or something while waiting for my boyfriend to find me #orangpalingbarimaludidunia). I also overdosed on muscle cream which got absorbed into my bloodstream and turned my pee the colour of Pepsi, and cried daily to my boyfriend because i constantly imagined having to be wheeled down the aisle in a wheelchair on our wedding day. I eventually had to get an injection from the doctor in my right buttock to ease the pain. I wish i was exaggerating. You can see just one teeny tiny example of the many types of bruises i had here.

And that is what, in long, created the divide between my heels and I.

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You smug bitch you Ari

Before what i like to call the “spinning incident”, I used to belong to the group of women who think that heels amp up the whole “power woman” status by helping us stand taller and closer to God. But i don’t really see it that way anymore. So no, i no longer need my heels to make me feel fabulous. Sure, I still wear the occasional platform wedge but other than to keep my skirt from wiping the floor clean or to give myself a leg-up when looking for my friends across the dance floor in nightclubs, i rarely feel the need to break them out.

Disclaimer: I’m in no way dissing anyone who loves heels just because i no longer wear them. I dress for myself and i hope you do too. If wearing heels is what makes you happy then by all means, you do you, girl/boy. You do you.

But the way i see it, i may feel powerful in heels but in flats, i’m fucking invincible.