After my first New York Fashion Week, I'm not gonna lie, I was really feeling myself. When everyone back home asked where I had been I had the illest flex: "Oh, you know, just checking out some shows at Fashion Week. Yeah, that's what I do for a living." I was so amped for my next fashion week, I was seriously waiting for invites for six months straight. But the closer to February we got, the more worried I became. I mean, I literally had like two invites in my inbox a week before go time. While I still blame this glaring oversight by PR companies on Gmail going down, I was beginning to question if I was going to go at all. YEAH FUCKING RIGHT. Like I'm gonna miss the sheer fuckery that is NYFW just because some brands got all snobby in the span of six months. It's almost as if they don't want me slanderizing their events and showing up with decidedly terrible accessories like canes and unkempt beards. But after a quick email to my editors, I decided that the tradition needed to stay alive—had to stay alive. So, I got my hair did, threw everything I own into two bags and tested my influence levels for my second New York Fashion Week. Peep game.