Suri's Burn Book

I just want everyone to know that we are staying in a hotel. Despite what Katie’s outfit may suggest, we are not refugees.

Nothing makes me sadder than looking at Katie wearing clothes that she thinks fit her.

Just some bag lady riding the New York City peasant express.

Definitely not anyone I’m related to.

I’ve got this school uniform thing under control. It’s all about accessories, a good tailored fit, and non-drowsy Benadryl to keep your skin from rebelling against retail fabric.

Meanwhile, Katie thinks leggings are pants. Go figure.

Who is this beautiful alien and what has she done with the walking embarrassment who lives in my apartment?

I negotiated with Tokyo while simultaneously wearing five different shades of pink at once. Perfectly.

Katie’s big project of the day was that poncho.

Um, yes, Katie, you’re supposed to wash your hair more than once a week.

It’s all gone wrong.

This is not what I had in mind when Katie suggested an afternoon in the park and a new pink hat. My feet (and my shoes) are far too delicate for this kind of work.

This whole flying commercial/ “how the other half lives” thing isn’t cute anymore. Even in first class, you have to breathe the same air as the people in steerage.

I have learned how to carry my own bags with style, though. And believe me, it wasn’t easy.

Look at me, becoming Blair Waldorf before your very eyes. (I even have a minion.)

Sure, these are the MOMA steps, and there are cargo shorts and a trashcan a little too close to me for my taste, but I am a New Yorker now and can accept that these things happen.

I feel like I’m growing.