|source: The Sartorialist|
M: Now Adrien, she was clearly in a terrible accident.
A: One where her pants fell down?
M: And a vicious land shark attacked her shirt.
A: Or her hipbones just sliced through that sweater like butter.
M: I think that's listed under: Occupational Hazard for Moddles.
A: She must have been in a hurry if all she could find to wear was a ripped sweater she found crumpled under a pile of Italian Vogue magazines.
M: The pants. Are those pants? Would we call them pants? How are they even staying up?
A: Is it a skirt? I don't even know. Clearly she has some kind of internal hitching system going on there.
M: Ropes and pulleys. You know I love a good pulley.
A: MARIANNE WE HAVE TALKED ABOUT NOT TALKING ABOUT THIS.
M: I'M SORRY OKAY. YOU SAID INTERNAL HITCHING AND MY BRAIN JUST GOES THERE I AM BROKEN.
A: YOU ARE A SICK GIRL.
M: YOU STARTED IT.
A: Sick. Sick girl.
M: I don't feel very well.
A: Stop thinking about SHobbit's sexual practices. IT HELPS. I PROMISE.
M: Well, I was trying, but you BROUGHT IT UP AGAIN FOR THE LOVE.
A: I hate myself.
M: I hate everything.
A: We're fired. Go home.