The Downside to Apparel Advertising

   Advertising promotes modified reality, through its effectiveness of portraying bliss and narrowing societal standards unethically, thus leading the unbelievers to scrutinize at its infallible downside.
Every time monthly magazines arrive in the mail, pages are immediately leafed through. Readers' eyes are fixed on stunning snapshots of advertisements. Perhaps too much credit is given for such an unethical industry. If argued, the downside would have more bullet points.
   Most girls are easily influenced in what they see, hear, and this so results in the acceptance of what society has framed as natural. Walking into malls, there are posters on either side of the hallways, each encouraging shopping by offering attractive discounts. Consequently, consumers who think that they are saving money end up spending more. It's like a negotiation with a con artist. People soon realize that they have a hole in their pocket when they lack cash or have their cards declined. So while the advertisements are beneficial for corps, consumers walk out and into the majority crowd and its recession. Meanwhile, saving money isn't the only way costumers thought they were achieving happiness. Websites like Abercrombie and Fitch advertise with fresh phrases such as, "Here's to longer days & short dresses" and "Here's to laid-back days and lightweight layers" with photos of models drenched in bliss. It is misleading when costumers think that wearing what these euphoric models wear will bring them happiness, for it will be happiness of materialism, which is unquestionably temporary. True happiness cannot be bought, but rather found and kept. Still, it enforces the harsh truth that happiness could be gained by following current trends. Schoolgirls of recent years appear to turn their hallways into a runaway and fashion bullying is on the rise. Back in 2008, girls were shut out of the "in" group for not wearing Abercrombie in Clifton, Virginia, "the sweetheart suburban town of estates and grandeur." It contributes to the bitter truth that advertisements set standards that determine happiness. Certain clothes, although portraying similar images of people shot with happiness, do not carry out happiness as fashion bullying does suppress it. On the critical point of view, happiness should not be determined by what people wear, and moreover, by shopping for clothes.
 Advertising establishes the notion that how you drew makes who you are in society. First impression, labels, stereotypes... no wonder advertising proves to be effective. On the other hand, teenagers dress in ways that they want to be perceived as. Maybe behind those black, sleek clothes, there's a sweet, shy girl who wants to find her place in society. She is who she wants to be... with her clothes. Likewise, there could be a girl who dresses so floral, with flutter layers, but she's more of a fit for metal-pointy clothes that matches her everyday, get-out-of-my-way attitude. Advertising, with its false promise of happiness, also seals deceitful impressions from society. It's America, yes, and you can dress however you want, of course, but sometimes dressing just to fall into the space instead of finding your place isn't what our founding fathers would agree on. They fought for a freedom of expression among many other freedoms, and there wouldn't be America if the patriots were all loyalists. That's one way to look at the advertising/perception situation: loyalists buying their labels. At the same time, dressing in certain labels results how people will accept you in society. This therefore explains the "wrong-girl-right-clothes" theory mentioned earlier. If the mean girl dressed in porcupine metal jewelry and clothes, she may not be as admired or taken in society as she would be. The serene, introvert wouldn't belong in a more noticeable clique if she didn't dress in intimidating Black Canary clothes. Acceptance is why people dress the way they do. Advertisements set those standards, as always. And the rest is how society will take you. Advertisements also implant the idea that "To really dress well is to fit well". While this might be true for its models, it certainly has a negative impact on society. In AP Psychology, students learn about various disorders that girls take in their endeavor to become skinny. Anorexia, bulimia, you name it. This originates with seeing models flaunt their high-fashion apparel in stem-like figures. So shopping would not be enough; girls had to make themselves a clone of what they see so frequently. "How you dress makes who you are in society, how you fit takes where your acceptance belongs in society." Although indirectly implied, there cannot be more truth to what advertisements are sculpting.
  At length comes a group of critical unbelievers, also known as researchers, columnists, parents, and psychologists, all of whom complain of the downside to apparel advertising. Advertising does display happiness, which would be considered the purest element among its artificial standards of trends and shape. But does outer beauty of contemporary age now considered more important than inner beauty? To think, advertisements have models indulged in happiness because of how they look, wear, and fit. Their photos do not tell anything of their inner beauty, and their smiles could be a ploy to make their mark on the world, but a mark of unethical standards should be disregarded. Seeing advertisements affect the way teenagers see and treat themselves. Students at Fort Lauderdale High, after being exposed to magazines and advertisements embedded within, are more likely to talk about what they think of themselves figure wise; advertisements succeed in sales as they succeed in destroying students' self-esteem. "I feel thick", "I hate myself", et cetera are a couple of random things one would hear while walking through the school's hallways, eating at the patio, or after school before extracurriculars. Photoshopping fashion snapshots frame unrealistic ideals that results in the questionable statement as to whether teenagers will ever be happy with who they really are. Perhaps how they feel will change as they realize that advertisements' photos of the apparel industry are edited during photoshopping. The attempt of boosting sales brings unethical advertisements, which in a karma-like backfire, reveals the photoshop trick. Though advertisements could be deemed unethical, there are and in continuance, costumers who buy their fictional standards. Credulous page-turners and "in-style" consumers will shop their way to shallow happiness, which could cause impulsive buying. Parents are concerned about their teenagers' financial instability, and while they hope their teenagers' allowances will be managed wisely, advertisements slowly hook teens to break their budgets, which leads to a possibility of the inability to pay tuition for future education. Education is part of the American Dream, and advertisements could be ruining it. Besides that, trends and new arrivals could be distracting in the schools' environment and interrupting the success of students' true potential. Some years ago, Tyra Banks hosted a talk show that brought out the popular and unpopular girls on stage. Advertisements sneakily smuggle their standards into the schools' environment, and thus results in what has become of the schools. Parents who went through it understands that fashion bullying is comparable to a reign of terror, and columnists collect research on the analyzation of that matter. With advertisements, researchers will always have more to add to their statistics and its downside appears to be never-ending, or its end, if ever lived to, seems distant.
  Advertisements minimize the freedom of expression, with labels for certain trends and certain collection of styles, thus bringing consumers to be narrow-minded and ignoring their self-impressions. Audacity rules, but suppressed by the recent reign of modified reality. While corporations are eager to put out persuasive ads, which are deemed successful in carrying out its profitable purpose, the unethical procedure towards cash for the headquarters and its branches may be impacting America in ways underestimated. With luck, criticism of the unbelievers could find an egress to the dystopia of impressions advertising has created.

The Aftermath of The Cask of Amontillado

The sunlight spilled through the leafless spaces of the oak above. Each Earl sister was an adventurer herself, but reacted to the tour differently. Novelle Scotia, one of the sisters, kept lifting her chin every so often and flipped her tousled waves as if her actual purpose was to catch each breathtaking sight along the trail. Her amber eyes took everything in generally, and her silent exhalation left the turtledoves' chirps unbroken. Her interest lies in all things aesthetic, as she herself was an aesthete. Novelle Scotia's major is Environmental Archeology, which was slightly more related to this tour than her sister, and although their pace matched, she was different in matters of perspective. She scrutinized at one kind of plant, bird, or butterfly momentarily before shifting to the next since she always had to write papers such as the analysis of plant physiology or biodiversity. Scotia Rosemarie was skeptical of commercials, first experiment results among many other things, which made her financially stable, successful in confirming data and conclusions, and street-wise, as she was an extrovert, unlike her typically introvert sister. Her gray eyes were calm and patient, but shone with unbiased judgement. She ended up on this tour with her sister because they both signed up for Mediterranean Mysteries as their elective, each having a different intention: Novelle Scotia thought that mysteries in an artisan land was beautiful, and Scotia Rosemarie wanted to have more incredulity to shatter. "Ouch!" Novelle Scotia screamed. THe tour group ignored her, lost in their observations. Novelle Scotia paused on the trail. Scotia Rosemarie broke away from sightseeing a minute later and glanced back. She followed her sister's gaze toward a bite bigger than a mosquito's bite. "Maybe if you stopped acting like an It girl, dressed properly, and lit that citrus candle I gave you, you could've had a 90% chance of avoiding that bite." Scotia Rosemarie commented, waving one hand unseen underneath her trench coat and held up her mug with a strongly scented candle in the evening-turned-twilight. "And listen to you complain about your straightened hair getting frizzy the other 10% of the time?" Novelle Scotia questioned provokingly. Scotia Rosemarie always took people's blunt remarks well, however candid they were. If she was irritated, she certainly didn't express it. So she replied, "I just mentioned wishing that it was less humid."
"And you combed your fingers through your hair, indicating----"
"Indicating that if you thought that I said otherwise, or assumed what you did, you have strangely intruded my mind."
Silence.
Thought so, Scotia Rosemarie thought to herself. Novelle Scotia didn't want to be involved in anything strange nor be described or accused as an intruder. So she twirled ahead of her sister, letting the wind whip her skirt and catch full volume of it, as if to forget their conversation. Her sister concealed most of her face with a sheer scarf, and put on a pair of night vision glasses to see beyond their trail. When they arrived at the brick and stone dome, Novelle Scotia said to her sister, "Your hair, like mine, matches your trench coat."
"Thanks, " Scotia Rosemarie replied, both appreciating her sister's attempt to pacify their relationship and not appreciating her obvious comments.
"Good evening!" Their tour guide began. "If you didn't hear my self introduction earlier because you were busy shopping at the airport," she paused and glanced at Novelle Scotia before returning her eyes to the group, "my name is is Eve Shire, and I am your tour guide. For another time, I suggest that more of you will wear adventure-appropriate clothes." She pointed at her outfit that looked as if it came out of an Indiana Jones movie. "I know that we're in Italy, but we're on an educational tour, and not at a fashion show." Novelle Scotia giggled from the group, which Scotia Rosemarie thought was ironic. Eve Shire continued. "The catacomb which you will tour was rumored to be where the real Romeo and Juliet died. There are evidences that these star-crossed lovers existed, and you are for yourselves to decide if it is true that they were buried here."
 She went on with her lecture about the evidences of the real Romeo & Juliet and their story. Novelle Scotia, although very much liked Shakespeare's romantic tragedy, found the lecture boring, and a tad bit frightened about going to explore an underground cemetery. "I'd rather not tamper with my natural ignorance," she said in a low voice. Eve Shire's outfit seemed as serious as her personality. Her sister paid the lecturer undivided attention. When she decided to not let her mind drift off and listen, the lecture ended. That quickly. As the tour group descended down the staircase, their tour guide guide was far ahead, with Scotia Rosemarie following closely behind. The tour guide hold her peace to let their imaginations grow.
"It's eerily uncomfortable!" Novelle Scotia exclaimed.
"I'm with you," Klara Engelstad agreed. Klara Engelstad was another student from their women's college, and her appearance mirrored Scotia Rosemarie's, even though they are unrelated by blood. She was serious about studying on-site, but the catacombs were her place in preference. Scotia Rosemarie wished that her sister would hold her tongue. She almost believed Romeo & Juliet's existence, but her doubts held her back from falling into persuasion. The Romeo & Juliet story that she just heard of was a coincidence to Shakespeare's play, and even if she thought it was real, she would keep it to herself to avoid disbelief and explanation. Novelle Scotia caught up, and started to knock on the burial entrances, in an attempt to soften her fear. Eve Shire tried to be patient, yet she spoke firmly, "We're with you. Let those who rest in peace rest." Upon Novelle Scotia's last knock, however, she, Klara, Scotia Rosemarie, and the group heard empty space behind it. "The irony keeps on getting intense," Aria Romanova said. Novelle Scotia was the last person anyone expected to discover anything. Eve Shire sensed the group's curiosity elevating. "Alright, let's get back to the hotel," she said, hoping that saying something about the hotel would invite comfort and convince everyone to retreat to shelter. She hoped that Romeo & Juleit would be buried behind that brick wall, but decided that some mysteries should be left undisturbed. Most of the tour group, including Eve Shire, left. Scotia Rosemarie remained, as she was interested, along with her sister and Klara Engelstad. Whether it was Romeo & Juliet's mystery or not, Klara would leave without knowing about the empty space and why there was no entrance. So Klara pulled out a hammer from her beige, suede bag and swinger at the brick wall with determination. The bricks were more fragile than estimated, perhaps by age or the damp conditions underground. When the wall collapsed, it unveiled a secret long hidden: a skeleton in the shape of an elderly man was chained to the wall on the opposite end. There was a wooden branch, shaped like a torch at one end, that laid on the floor of that unfortunate room.
"I think that the torch dimmed and burned out. The man didn't die from fire because his clothes and skeleton survived; he must have died from suffocating from the smoke and was deprived of oxygen. He died before starvation," Novelle Scotia pointed out.
"Who was the man?" Klara wondered.
"Doubtless he was noble. Maybe it was revenge. But it is a crime," Scotia Rosemarie concluded.

Montressor lived in his antique estate at peace all these years. He has forgotten what he had done fifty years back because he was ashamed of not feeling guilty or sad that he buried that night at the back of his mind. Reclining in his soft, cushioned sofa, he held up a withering rose by the fireplace. The edges of its petals seemed all the more fiery against the blazing background. "Scarlett," he described the rose. That very word brought back flashes of memories of his wife, from their engagement to her end. She caught the cold, and he tried to nurse her back to health, but even with all the medicine, all their wealth, her case was hopeless. He tried to not think about her end, and instead, about their life together. "Scarlett," he repeated, and her name echoed in their house. He saved each of the little moments of their life together to be replayed each day, so that everyday's reminiscence differs. When he was done replaying, he turned on the television. A reporter right outside the catacomb said, "Investigators claimed that this historical crime scene occurred about fifty years ago." The camera shifted to a group of young women whose faces were blurred. One of them began to speak. "We're college students from northwestern Europe and traveling to write papers on our first-handed experience of the Mediterranean mysteries. Originally, this particular tour was to see if Romeo and Juliet were buried here. Luck led us to another road, and we found a chained prisoner who ran out of it," said the woman with skinny jeans, an ivory flutter-sleeved shirt, and a beige, suede bag. A woman with a dark red dress, a matching rose in her hair, black stilettos, and a french manicure stepped forward and declared, "I was knocking underground, and I couldn't really see in such a dark place, but I remembered knocking a plain wall, and behind t sounded like empty space. My friend knocked it down, and the chill ran up my spine."
"We thought it would be ideal to keep our identities blurred. If this crime happened fifty years ago, then the avenger must be somewhere around seventy years old or so. People around here live long, and most Italians have lived here all their lives, with their title and inheritances," The girl with the trench coat said.
"Too close," Montressor said, wide-eyed. These women were simply too close to the truth. He turned off his television, but could't turn off the past that haunts him. Ire erupted from within him. he was provoked by what he had done, and swung his walking stick to purposely shatter a nearby glass vase. But then he cooled down by unlocking that secret happiness of having taken revenge. Then he heard an elderly man's deep voice, crying out, "The Amontillado!" with a rich, hopeless laughter that followed. Montressor typically daydreamed of the past, alternative scenarios that could've happened, and remember many voices adequately, but this time his voice seemed real, as if the past crossed into the present. Montressor said aloud, "Fortunato, you are not real." Maybe it was his mind and anxiety deceiving him. Fortunato's voice replied, "What is real?" Montressor became confused, but confusion faded as dear sank in. Fortunato was replying, and he definitely wasn't imagining it. "Leave me to my peace," Montressor said, trembling. There was a moment of silence. Then, when Montressor thought that Fortunato left he spoke again. " I won't leave you as you have left me." From the top of the staircase, he was a figure descending. He couldn't see that well, but soon after realized that it was his servant, Marinella. It was a quick relief before he returned to anxiety. What if she knew? Around the time that Fortunato disappeared, the town started talking about what might have happened. But that was decades ago. Maybe she didn't hear. Maybe she doesn't know. But then she served the teacup as gently as it was fragile, and her movements were perfect, but fleeting as it never were. When she turned around to leave, she appeared as a captive fleeing. Montressor rose higher from his slightly bent posture, and called out, "Marin..." She stopped, but did not dare to look back. She hinted unwilling obedience, as if it was the quickest egress out of this situation. Montressor walked towards her and have her a comforting, cozy hug. She exhaled, and when all of the nervousness left her, Montressor said, "Thanks. He then injected her with a colorless, odorless liquid and she fell to the floor. From a faraway crevice of a mahogany door, his wine taster, Francesa heard and watched everything. She was not only a wine taster, for her master, but an eavesdropper for herself. She knew that she couldn't trust anyone; everyone seems to be hiding something. Her sleek, ebony mane contrasted the ignis of the logs in the chimney. She had to seek help. She sought shelter from a feudal conflict that she decided to runaway from, and now it's time to runaway from such madness in this former haven. An hour came to pass. She stepped outside her room, walked quietly downstairs to get herself a glass of water. After greeting Montressor innocently, and without malice nor knowledge of her friend's disappearance, she offered to cook his favorite dish. "I must go to get wheat though, for pasta without wheat isn't pasta."
"Of course, of course," Montressor replied. He seemed sad, but calm at least.
"Then the champagne ran out from Sunday's bash. Will you fancy more tonight?"
"I ought to sip some, lest my gelato is deemed too sweet."
"Then leave it to me," Francesa said.
"Let it be so."
Francesa hiked through the forest to the catacombs. It was almost night again. Almost dinnertime. She got the ingredients to cook for Montressor tonight. So since she did as she said she would, her mind shifted to other matters. Please, she thought, let luck come; let me find the students. A girl walked toward her, and held out her hand the western way. "Hi, my name is Scotia Rosemarie."
"Hi," Francesa said in return. Her voice started to choke. She grabbed Scotia Rosemarie's wrist, and kneeled. Her eyes rained, and sorrows silenced her. She has seen too much. She knew too much.
"Do you know something?" Scotia Rosemarie said, trying to be calm towards Francesa, who was emotionally unstable.
"My, my master..."
Klara approached. "What is going on?"
Novelle Scotia came soon after. "I think she knows something."
"Montressor," Francesa began, hesitated to breathe, then resumed. "is my master, and landlord. He has recently fell into inevitable hallucinations, and sometimes, I pity him. I think that his life was too malignant, and he ought to rest. But now that I still think so, I think so for different reasons."
"Different reasons?" Klara couldn't stray from the weeping Francesa.
"Yes. He mumbled, 'Fortunato' just lately and that is the name of the man who was long gone. Rumors say that he has been intoxicated with wine and slept forever for what he loved. But heard what Montressor said. A servant girl that lived next door to me heard it, and because Montressor take tea during tea time, she served him tea as if she didn't hear. But he has an uncanny ability of detecting soon-to-be traitors. Except for me. I am the daughter of smugglers, and while a wine taster, an actress as well. I am the last one he can guess is lying, and the first he claims loyal."
"We are not here to persecute you. For you have the key to our mystery, we must hear it out," Klara said.
So Francesa told them about Montressor and what people thought became of him, of Marinella and her untimely death, and all the details that contribute to her conclusion----Montressor had something to do with the death of Fortunato.
"I must go home. It is an hour before dinnertime, and forty to get home."
"Wait," Novelle Scotia declared rather bluntly. "Will you show us----"
"----the way?" Scotia Rosemarie finished the question.
"Yes, but I must run. I am frightened."
So The girls ran to Montressor's estate, and they, except Francesa, hid in his botanical garden. They watched through the kitchen windows that extended to the dining room.
Montressor reclined, and Francesa remained unsuspected of eavesdropping.
She prepared his dinner, with its champagne and gelato set to the side.
Montressor followed the aroma of the herbs and looked as if he craved for food.
"You've tasted much of my champagne," he commented in a jolly manner.
"As you advised beforehand," she said. "Dine well, my lord."
He clutched his silverware, started to dig in, and turned on some jazz music.
Then the entrance was violently intruded by three of the girls he recognized on the news, with reporters and photojournalists.
"Francesa!" He still believed that Francesa didn't tell them so, even if she heard him.
They questioned him if he knew anything about the skeleton at the catacombs, then embraced him, cuffed him, and took him away, despite his absolute denial.
He looked shocked.
Scotia Rosemarie said, "Innocence, denial. Those things give away, sir."
He was taken to the psychiatric hospital.
Francesa visited him, and brought samples of different kinds of wine each time.
He accepted it with gratitude.
Then one day, another servant of Montressor came to visit him. His name was Romeo, and like Montressor, he lost his beloved one, but did not die like the original Romeo with his Juliet. He was appointed as the new servant by Francesa, who saved up enough silver to hire a servant to do Marinella's dusting duties. Francesa told him the story of everything that has happened to Montressor, and what she found it along the way, being a wine taster in his estate. After Francesa visited Montressor, and brought his wine, which she couldn't identify what kind it was, and left him to his peace, Romeo said in his deep voice, "The Amontillado."
He strongly believed in justice. He believed that torturing evil will make the torturers become what they despise. To eliminate evil would be the one thing that will prevent what might come. Just because people didn't see things coming doesn't mean it won't.
Montressor tried to breathe calmly, but his heart was racing, and his teeth was starting to tremble, though it wasn't of the chill Autumn air. Did he hear that? Was it mind tricks? His imagination, his imagination, he wished. But that deep voice that was so similar to the one he had heard fifty years ago...  Those words. Everything was exactly what he wished to run from, to forget and find euphoria in his lost haven.
Romeo stood behind Montressor, and placed his hand on Montressor's shoulder. Reality took his breath away, and Montressor dropped back to his lounge, stiff and blue.