Dear Bal Habour "Magazine,"
You are on notice and about one more issue away from being dead to me. (Yeah, I watch the Colbert Rport. Obvi.) Why do you insist on calling yourself a magazine? There is no content! It's ads! And even when you pretend to have a style layout, it's just more ads. And, yes, I fucking want those pretty frock-coats. I do. But I will resist. Yes. And, another thing, you'll have to do better than Mena Suvari if you want me to take you seriously. As a magazine. Or even a catalog. Ew.
I can barely afford to indulge myself with a shopping spree at Bloomingdale's during sales, wherein prices are marked down from the suggested retail prices of $400-600 to $100-300. My retail threshold is at $150, yo. $250 if it's really pretty. I won't buy anything more expensive than that, save for special occasions. I will buy my Michael Kors skirt, which I am happy to tell you I bought at full price because he is sane and sensible enough to keep his suggested retail price for such items at precisely $129. I will buy this Michael Kors items, and I will squeeze my eyes shut and pretend that it is really an Alexander McQueen skirt from his Fall '05 collection, the one where he did the sixties sweater girl/naughty librarian/biker babe/cinema slut thing.
So, stop sending me your catalogs. You can remind me all you want that you have Herns, Prada, and Yves St. Laurent shops just an hour or so away. And that goes double for you, Merrick Village. Because, seriously, you're only ten minutes away from my house. And I don't need any reminders that Carolina Herrera, Jimmy Choo, and Diane von Furstenberg are all waiting for me.
Shit. Betsey Johnson, Luca Luca, and Cavalli are having sales. Whores, trollops, and cockhungry beasts. The lot of them. Lucky I wasn't one to spend my hard-earned money during my high school and college years and have plenty of money to lose in one shopping trip.
You are on notice and about one more issue away from being dead to me. (Yeah, I watch the Colbert Rport. Obvi.) Why do you insist on calling yourself a magazine? There is no content! It's ads! And even when you pretend to have a style layout, it's just more ads. And, yes, I fucking want those pretty frock-coats. I do. But I will resist. Yes. And, another thing, you'll have to do better than Mena Suvari if you want me to take you seriously. As a magazine. Or even a catalog. Ew.
I can barely afford to indulge myself with a shopping spree at Bloomingdale's during sales, wherein prices are marked down from the suggested retail prices of $400-600 to $100-300. My retail threshold is at $150, yo. $250 if it's really pretty. I won't buy anything more expensive than that, save for special occasions. I will buy my Michael Kors skirt, which I am happy to tell you I bought at full price because he is sane and sensible enough to keep his suggested retail price for such items at precisely $129. I will buy this Michael Kors items, and I will squeeze my eyes shut and pretend that it is really an Alexander McQueen skirt from his Fall '05 collection, the one where he did the sixties sweater girl/naughty librarian/biker babe/cinema slut thing.
So, stop sending me your catalogs. You can remind me all you want that you have Herns, Prada, and Yves St. Laurent shops just an hour or so away. And that goes double for you, Merrick Village. Because, seriously, you're only ten minutes away from my house. And I don't need any reminders that Carolina Herrera, Jimmy Choo, and Diane von Furstenberg are all waiting for me.
Shit. Betsey Johnson, Luca Luca, and Cavalli are having sales. Whores, trollops, and cockhungry beasts. The lot of them. Lucky I wasn't one to spend my hard-earned money during my high school and college years and have plenty of money to lose in one shopping trip.