As a teen, this box changed into a drawer– however at that age I most likely might have counted my entire closet as one huge dressing-up task, provided my taste for splashy ’60s mixed drink frocks and synthetic fur. Gradually however, this drawer filled with a specifically ostentatious collection of flotsam: sparkly gowns, capes, plastic beads, phony flowers, ugly wigs, and netting underskirts with drooping flexible at the midsection. It was the type of location where ripped ’30s dress, material faded like pushed flowers, were crushed in on top of metal American Clothing leggings that made one appear like a scaly, somewhat rainbow-tinted lizard. Worth and age mattered much less than capacity. All I appreciated was the result, happily drifting in between garments befitting teenage ravers and somewhat down at heel stars of the quiet screen.