I spend entirely too much time doing the following three things: dabbling in excessive amounts of _Parks and Recreation_ watching, listening to music that is absolutely not appropriate for any situation in 2014 (this _Zoey 101_ theme song is bumping, by the way) and, of course, fash talking.

I spend obscene amounts of time talking, reading, writing and daydreaming about fashion. Fashion is to me what sports are to the rowdy boys down my hall, what music is to those local bands who play for nothing but the simple joy of it, and what finding the perfect kolaczki is to my charmingly Polish family. Fashion is what keeps me sane and afloat. It’s what sets my veins on fire one minute and then later brings me peace of mind. It’s what I love, and frankly, it’s what I’m pretty dang good at.

I will fash talk with anyone who will listen. I will fash talk with friends, with family, with people in my lectures, with people on the street, with people in line at Chipotle and with any unsuspecting passersby who accidentally makes eye contact with me for more than a couple of seconds. Some may call this socially unacceptable. I call it, “Your outfit is ridiculously cute and I have no reason not to tell you, so build a bridge, get over it and proceed to inform me where you bought your top.”

Over the years, fash talk has rarely let me down. I don’t think I’ve ever complimented a stranger’s outfit without making them proudly beam for their stylish triumph. I don’t think I’ve ever met someone who didn’t have an opinion on a particular trend, and I know I haven’t talked to someone who didn’t care at least a little bit about the clothes with which they adorned their bodies.

Through this fash talking, I’ve learned a lot about fashion in general. I’ve also grown to inevitably fall more and more in love with it.

I’ve learned that fashion, whether we acknowledge it or not, is one of the few things we as humans have in common. We all dress ourselves and we all, for the most part, want to look at least somewhat decent. It’s how we translate “decent” into our clothing choices that make our personal styles so vastly different.

What’s fantastic is that there’s really no “wrong” way to do fashion, as long as you wear what works for you. It’s not the clothes that make up a person’s style, but how he or she wears those clothes. If you’ve got a girl in a Prada dress who’s fiddling with her hair and looking uncomfortable on one end of the room, and a girl in a little number from the Macy’s sale rack who carries herself with confidence and grace at the other, who are you going to be more likely to chat up? Frankly, I vote option two.

Dress for how you _want_ to feel, and don’t be afraid to do so boldly. If you see something that catches your eye and makes you feel beautiful and confident, wear that bad boy. What your mother, and grandmother and everyone else in the business of loving care has told you is absolutely true: What others think about you is none of your concern. What you think about yourself, especially in fashion, is everything.

There will always be people to tell you that they don’t like this or that or the other thing. But if that romper and leather jacket combo makes you feel all Molly Ringwald from _Pretty in Pink_ in the loveliest of ways, then who cares? Once again, wear that ish.

Your style is your own. And although the world may benefit by you not wearing denim mini skirts and tube tops, if that’s your deal, then go ahead and flaunt that.

Because the only one who can fash talk badly about your style is you, and fashion is really just like college after all: a lot more fun when you’re a little bit bolder.