We all have skeletons in our closet. Mine just happen to be wearing neon pants and faux fur vests. Over the years, my fashion choices have ranged from “bold” to “cry for help disguised as confidence.” And while I’d love to pretend I burned the evidence, I keep those looks in a mental photo album labeled: What Were You Even Trying to Say, David?

Let’s talk about the sleeveless turtleneck. Yes, it existed. Yes, I wore it unironically. For one month in 2013, I thought I was redefining structure and softness. What I was actually doing was confusing everyone within a 10-foot radius. The compliments were fake. The photos live forever. I still think about her… the turtleneck, not a person.

There was also the time I tried to “bring back” ankle-length cargo shorts. Why? Because rebellion. Because pockets. Because no one asked for it and that made it art. Somewhere, there’s a photo of me looking like a divorced camp counselor with a Bluetooth headset and tragic optimism. I have no regrets. Except maybe the socks.

Of course, no trip down fashion-shame lane is complete without mentioning “The Poncho Era.” It was warm. It was flowy. It screamed “Don’t touch me, I’m mysterious and possibly fragile.” I wore it to three social gatherings and two existential crises. A poncho is basically a wearable boundary, and I respect that.

Look, fashion is trial and error — mostly error if you’re doing it right. Every fashion faux pas I’ve made is just another brick in the stylish, sarcastic fortress of my personality. Regret? Rarely. Cringe? Constantly. But if your outfit doesn’t slightly haunt you five years later, did you even evolve?