Headline: “A couple of Italian men predict a future generation’s overall aesthetic” (it’s quite amusing, really). Or maybe “predict” isn’t quite the right word at all. Perhaps it treads further along the treacherous intersection between analytical probability and generous luck. Perhaps we have been conditioned into thinking that this lacey white tank top is the future of Vogue as we know it. Perhaps we, as a generation of impressionable teenagers, have fallen victim to a fashion constitution; one of which we are shackled by! (Calm down, Elle Woods)

I find myself questioning whether or not I truly like Brandy Melville’s clothes. And truth be told, I do. Or at least, I think I do? 

What is admittedly so enticing about the brand? Could it be their well-fitting tops or perfectly cut jeans? Indubitably, the idea that I might be part of something exclusive is the largest factor intensifying its allure. I might be a member of an elite club, one in which everyone just kind of sits there and looks pretty and judges your body and your face, but at least I was allowed into the club right? At least I am wanted! Well, at the very least I’ve been allowed in! 

Although I suit the size quotient and could feasibly pull off an effortlessly chic persona, I will never truly feel worthy of their clothing. It is not god-like nor worthy of that level of praise in any way. But I don’t think I’ll ever feel thin enough, or pretty enough, or feminine enough or laid-back enough for Brandy Melville. I will never fit this unattainable standard Brandy Melville fawns over.

And really, who the fuck does Brandy Melville think he is anyway? To make me feel so profoundly disgusted by my body in its intrinsic state. To let me observe the girls that he has chosen to protect and love and care for, and know that I am not sufficient. Although I am perhaps apt to wear his fabric, I will never fulfill his ideal.

This ideal waltzes around me daily, both outside and online. His clothes drape elegantly off her thin frame. I crave to be pined for as the clothes do to her figure, shaping her with grace and highlighting my insecurities. It is inescapable. Everywhere I turn, another walking beauty standard haunts my self-worth and enflames my disordered thoughts. My crippling ego is once again taunted by the thought of my potential if only I followed its guidance. 

Tempting. 

And when I see the line outside of the Queen West storefront, we’re right back at it again.

I hate it here.

The anger that simmers within me as I walk into this store yanks at my stomach lining. Out of both disgust for the brand itself, and fear that if the jeans don’t fit me I am worthless. 

I wait in line with anger, I shop out of hate. I try on with resentment, my temper rising and swelling as I enter the tiny change room (of which feels seemingly indicative of their target customer). I swipe my debit card out of spite and march from the store as if my 75-dollar purchase was a ground-breaking political statement against the corporation, provoking riots and activist campaigns in which they relentlessly follow their fearless leader (yours truly). 

I, among many others, completely oppose such foolish foundational elements that our time spent on the topic seems outright ridiculous. We are, however, swindled through our inherent yearning to belong into thinking that Brandy Melville is the idyllic brand for all our fashion needs. Have we been conditioned to enjoy such items in order to fulfill the inherently humane sense of belonging? Likely. Does a cute graphic tee make up for the enterprise in its entirety being built upon the rickety stilts of jealousy and discrimination? Unfortunately, yes.

Yet, they still thrive off of the backs of consumers, who are driven by the need for decent quality clothing at a reasonable price, whatever the literal (and figurative) cost.

And so, I present to you, the Brandy Melville Effect.

Skinny, rich, white girls selling you skinny, rich, white girl. I wish it was cheaper.