...Wait, okay, I forgot to mention because I liked the dress, but her hair and makeup? She looks like something that crawled up out of Patti Smith's garbage disposal. Nude lipstick, an amount of eyeshadow roughly equal to Mischa Barton's metric weight, and an ice-white, monochrome Tufnel mullet. She's washed out and creepy like a tweener Gollum looking at you out of the drain; all you see are the intense eyeballs coming at you like whoa. We all float down here. Google "ganguro" and you'll understand why we don't go to Shibuya anymore: The Chupacabra formerly known as Jenny Humphrey.
"Shorter. Blonder. I was... I was bored," she says. And so I killed myself, and came back as a ghastly thing! "I like it. It looks... it looks good." Oh wait, Nate likes it? Then I like it! I'm willing to admit that I am not as fashion forward as I used to be, and much like it took me months to comprehend skinny jeans lo those many years ago, I'm willing to believe that in some kind of future ... wasteland ... this look will be cute. Which frankly is the point of fashion, especially the Cobrasnake/Vice hipster guerilla-going-nowhere kind we're about to learn all about: getting somewhere retarded way before anybody else.
I say, if a tube sock around your arm and quarterback stripes on your face and granny boots/fanny pack feels appropriate for you to wear outside the house, you get bravery points for at least listening to your soul, and probably you are interesting in some way that masks deep, pitted, shattering need, which is my favorite kind of person. Personally, I think the only thing lamer than having a unique personality is expressing it, but whatever. They lamely dance around and she heads for the door, vowing to pee at work. Nate giggles and flexes and does most of his usual things.
Blair -- looking amazing in a blue tie, ruffles and the cutest blue white-polka-dotted umbrella -- feels the limo sliding up beside her before she looks. "Want to get in? I'd love to give you a ride," Chuck says, just as subtle as ever. It's a pretty simple exchange he's asking for, but Blair's not budging: "Oh, I'm sure you would. Too bad you've made the terms of that arrangement impossible." Chuck puts on the puppydogs and says he's had second thoughts about that. The limo stops like he's driving with his mind. "Come on, get in. Blair, resolve fading fast, suggests that possibly she doesn't want him anymore, with zero commitment in her voice. He makes a sweet face and begs: "Don't torture me. I'm dying..." She thinks about it just a moment too long, and then, fatally, steps toward him. He hits the lock, causing a horrifically hurt face on her part, and he grins. "All you have to do is say those three magic words." Or any three appropriate words: "I. Hate. You." He rolls it up and goes away and she just about pukes. Never give in! That's how they get you!