Modern Love

As I was walking home this evening- yes, I walk home- it was just down the street and cars have that smell to them. That sort of enclosed, meringue smell. I was walking home, down the glass boulevard where I spied a couple making love in the alleyway. The man took out a notepad, and I heard: "Let's begin this negotiation." The woman, in her red dress and diamond-glass earrings said: "I believe this will last for twenty minutes." The man said "Yes, but could we make it another 5? My sexual organs are out-performing expectations today." The woman lent against the wall, like a starlet on cyanide- she pursed her thin lips, eventually saying "Hm. I suppose that would be acceptable, however efficiency is key." For a moment I was confused- lovemaking has changed a lot since my day, I was thinking. Then another thought passed my mind: "Ah, we are witnessing prostitution. How interesting." I called to one of my ninja-floral-pants-assistants, who was hiding under a pothole. I scolded him for the cliche of his hiding place, and asked him to get a chair. I sat outside the opening of the alleyway, watching this act of lovemaking. It was all very efficient and mechanistic. I eagerly awaited the transaction of the money- wondering Just How Much it costs for a prostitute these days (and which one is the prostitute, hmm? I believe that's what BRAD'S GONE INTO YOU DESERTER. Brad who?)
Yet there was no transaction made. I went up to the woman afterwards*, as I helped her zip up- in all honesty, she could lose a kilogram or two. Not too bad, though- not a model, either. I asked the woman: "Did he pay by credit card?"
"Non Karl" (because everybody knows who I am), "we were making Modern Love."
"Ah.." said I, remembering why I went into asexuality.

*Frankly, I prefer to be surrounded by women. (Hi Belle, Tavi, Lady Amanda, etc). Men want to be me; women simply envy me. It's terrible when somebody wants to be you- especially if they're not paying for the privilege. Imagine if somebody created a fake me? Mon dieu! Mon Coco! Mon Chanel!

Love

I want to write something about Love, because that's something that's been on Uncle Karl's mind lately.
In an interview recently I said it means "everything" and before that I've said it means "nothing".

The truth is that "everything" is really clothes. When you break up with your boyfriend or girlfriend, as I'm sure many of you have had the painful experience of doing, you still have your clothes to hold onto.

I was sitting on the roof of the Chanel HQ today looking at my 2006 Dior Homme jacket, and said to it: "we've had some good times together, hm?". And then I looked at the stitching and saw a reply. An answer.
When you look at the Chanel logo, it talks to you. That's why people buy Chanel: not because of my perfect, impeccable design but because Chanel talks to people. I enjoy going to my current wardrobe and feeling the fabric, the seams, the logo of the pants and shirts and collars. I enjoy licking my sunglasses. I enjoy eating the old ties I do not need anymore. No calories.

So that explains why I put the Chanel logo on so much of the clothing I design: to be a friend to the customer, the wearing. I am a pimp whoring out his prostitutes to the general public, so they can have sex with Chanel. They can have sweet, hot, passionate sex with the Chanel clothes.
Isn't that great?

Now the problem with Love is that someone has to love you back, hmmm? Secret love is fine- I've had plenty of it. Plenty of you have it for me. You have Karl shrines in your houses I bet, in the living room- the centerpiece- so when guests come over they can admire your devotion to me. Sometimes, I creep around Paris at night and take photos of the shrines you build for me. I keep them in a little leather book in my underpants draw. Tres chic, hmm?

I've loved some, too. I am somewhat human! The secret ones will never know, of course. And the ones that I did- have a relationship with- well, they knew alright, hm? And then....they end.
I am so hip, so in the future, so blinkin' thinkin' sketchin', that it's never my fault.
I adore the people I fall in love with. I never do anything wrong, hm? Such a strange world we live on, and in.
(Note to self: get wigs for pigs).

When they said they adore me back, oh, Karl does love that. I miss that.

Anna thinks that it's because I'm not mean enough. To quote: "Karl, you need to be a bitch. Look at me- people love me! Because I create desire for them. Sparks, Karl, sparks".
Is that true? Am I too nice? Why am I asking you, anyway? Who is you? I can't even see what you're wearing! Never trust a badly dressed person, good advice for life there. So many badly dressed people in fashion.

Ah, love. The mystery.