The unveiling of a new designer collection is a lot like Christmas morning. There’s anticipation, maybe some guess work based on years passed, and ultimately a mix of glee and disappointment. And sometimes we experience a little tilting of the head, because we’re not quite sure how we feel. Enter Marc Jacobs’ new collections.

Yes, also the men’s collection. I enjoy shopping whatever section I like, age and gender be damned. As I’ve taken on the challenge of shopping for those who dress outside of my height, build and color palette, I try to stay aware of any and all fashion that is trending, though I admit, it’s mostly for entertainment purposes.

Artist collaborations are nothing new, and often bring more financial prosperity to the fashion house, while being detrimental to the contributing artist (cough, cough, Murakami). So it’s interesting when a collaboration doesn’t go south, but flies in more of a North-East direction—as opposed to North-West, which heads more directly toward Calabasis. Anyhow, what I immediately noticed about the Magda Archer/Marc Jacobs collection is that it felt like any of the pieces might have been rummaged from my late nineties to early aughts childhood closet.

It was once pointed out to me that all of my t-shirts had something written across the fronts of them. Around the time of my middle school years it’s safe to say I lived in t-shirts accompanied by some shape of denim. For some reason it just seemed easier to say it with a shirt than to actually say it. Fortunately, I’ve grown out of this habit and learned to articulate thoughts without the use of a graphic tee (save for one shirt—printed with a colorful message, purchased on my first trip to New York—yes, it’s rude, and beloved). So when I saw the new Marc, covered in messages like, “my life is crap” and “we’re in the shit” my heart skipped a beat or two. Ringer tees and bright pastels, oh my! Each message, coupled with a kitschy, fluffy cartoon animal, like the kind on the cards grandma used to give you, the ones with personal checks folded inside. Of course, the irony is that most people’s abuelas probably wouldn’t say half the things written across these shirts. The cool grandmas would, but not everyone is as blessed.

The inner pre-emo, post-goth child in me can really get behind Magda Archer’s “stay away from toxic people” sweaters, though the struggling elder millennial in me still might have some issues dealing with it’s $695 price tag. Turns out all this nostalgia comes with a price. Maybe Santa will be merciful this Christmas, or at least point me in the direction of someone who can turn my coal into diamonds…