Complete Trashcore Chaos & Chicken Drama – When I Was Your Age #6

Complete Trashcore Chaos & Chicken Drama – When I Was Your Age #6

 

The following is a work of satire. Any fashion critiques, budget chicken betrayals, or generational fashion crises are purely fictional and intended for comedic purposes—though suspiciously similar events may have happened in your office.

 

Nova (bursting in, holding up her phone):

Corny Baby! You are not ready for this. Kesha just brought back the Trash Bag Dress—and upgraded it!

 

We’re talking sequins, combat boots, and enough eyeliner to write a breakup album. Trashcore is officially thriving.

 

Cornelius (eyebrows climbing):

First of all… who—or what—is a Kesha?

 

Nova (gasps):

Oh my god. Corny Baby. She’s an icon. Glitter goddess. Patron saint of partying and post-apocalyptic glam.

 

Basically if chaos wore lipstick and had a Top 40 hit.

 

It’s like she stepped out of a glitter-stained apocalypse and said, “I own this landfill.”

 

Cornelius (lowering his newspaper slowly):

Excuse me? Did you just say “landfill” in the same sentence as “couture”?

 

Nova:

Yes. Trashcore, Corny Baby. It’s the hottest fashion vibe right now—distressed denim, chaotic layers, safety pins, boots that look like they’ve survived three music festivals and a flood.

It’s a whole statement: “I may be a mess, but I’m a hot mess with intentions.”

 

Cornelius:

When I was your age, we threw away clothes that looked like that. Or at least washed them.

 

Intentionally looking like you lost a fight with a recycling bin? That’s a trend now?

Nova (grinning):

It’s not just a trend, it’s a rebellion. Against perfection. Against billionaires pretending to be subtle. Trashcore is “I see your quiet luxury and raise you a loud disaster.”

 

Cornelius (grimacing):

And this… “Trashcore” is something people aspire to?

 

Nova:

Aspire to? Corny Baby, people plan their whole vibe around it.

 

Addison Rae showed up to brunch looking like she got in a fight with her laundry basket—and won.

 

Timothée Chalamet wore a deconstructed jumpsuit that said, “Yes, I slept in this—and I’m still hotter than your entire contact list.”

 

Cornelius:

The only way you’d ever catch me dressed like that is if I lost a bet. A big one. Like, “give up your record collection” big.

 

Nova:

That’s the spirit! Trashcore fashion isn’t about perfection, it’s about owning the mess. It’s distressed fashion meets disheveled aesthetic. Think: anti-fashion with charisma.

 

Cornelius:

So…now showing up to work looking like I fell into a drainage ditch is “expressive”?

 

Nova:

If by “drainage ditch” you mean avant-garde visionary, then yes.

 

Cornelius:

If I was a visionary I would have seen the drainage ditch before I fell into it.

 

Nova:

Kesha basically baptized the Trashcore movement. Her Trash Bag Dress is like the Mona Lisa of this whole aesthetic.

 

Cornelius:

Next you’ll tell me Max is dressing like that now too.

 

Nova:

He might, after last night. You didn’t hear? He told Sally he’d eaten this fancy lemon herbal spicy chicken at Johnny’s Place—you know, the restaurant, not some guy named Johnny.

 

Cornelius:

I’m aware. I’ve been emotionally overcharged and financially drained by Johnny’s Place before.

 

Nova:

Anyway, Sally said she could make that same dish better and on a budget. So Max took her up on it and went over to her apartment for a full dinner challenge.

 

Cornelius (spitting out his tea):

He went to Sally’s place for a “budget chicken challenge”?

Nova (nodding like it’s the Weather Channel):

Yup. Not a date. Technically. But Charlie’s been walking around like someone slow-cooked his dignity.

 

And Dana? Oof. Max told her, “You said we weren’t exclusive,” and “It was just dinner, not a date,” but she is not having it. She’s in full cold-silence, tight-smile, label-your-lunch energy.

 

Cornelius:

That’s worse than Trashcore. That’s interpersonal performance art with a side of betrayal casserole.

Nova (laughing):

Honestly, the only thing more dramatic than Max’s dinner plans is his wardrobe. If he walks in wearing a torn vintage tee and thrift-store corduroys tomorrow, I won’t even blink. That’s stage two of Trashcore acceptance.

 

Cornelius:

I wore mismatched socks to work one day—one day—and I got a passive-aggressive sticky note from Dana that said, “Feeling quirky?”

 

Like I’d committed a fashion crime against the entire HR department.

 

Nova:

Then you should embrace the era of Trashcore, where “fashion crime” is the whole aesthetic. You want to look like you’ve been emotionally wrecked by a playlist and physically tackled by a clearance rack.

 

Cornelius:

Trashcore sounds like a thrift store reject with some attitude and a side of duct tape.

 

Nova:

Exactly! That’s why it works. It’s raw, it’s messy, it’s expressive—and it’s cheaper than therapy. You just need a pair of ripped jeans, three clashing patterns, and a tragic backstory.

 

Cornelius:

My tragic backstory is that I work here.

 

Nova:

Then you’re halfway to the look already, Corny Baby. Give it time—one more Max-related scandal, and even Dana might show up in combat boots and a crop top that says “Emotionally Over It.”

 

Cornelius (deadpan):

If that day comes, I’ll be at Johnny’s Place ordering a double lemon herbal chicken with a side of retirement.

 

Nova (smirking):

You could totally pull off Trashcore, Corny Baby. You’ve got the sarcasm. You’ve got the tragic office energy. All you need now is to stop ironing your socks.

 

Remember: if your workplace drama includes Trashcore fashion, emotionally over-seasoned chicken, and someone named Max saying “it wasn’t a date,” you’re either living in satire—or working at Informer.Digital. Either way, we salute your survival skills.