Cosmopolitan Magazine Confessions

Save Me, magazines, save me!

Tag: China, toys, magazines,
From: http://www.buy-china-toys.com/

Was a year ago, U.S. writer Cathy change binge-drinking, sugar-sucking wreck, shagging führungsschwache a colleague called Bruno. Now she is happy married and vegetables to eat. How did they do it? By following the advice of glossy magazines. Every word. She had Elle in her ear, Vogue at the throat and Oprah (O magazine), the Nose. She describes in her book due for renewal.
Read on, and I puke puke again. I have agreed with my editor that I will emulate Alter, spending a week following a discussion of women's magazines – my nemesis. I despise Tatler, Harper's and all their evil spawn. Whenever I hear the words Style Bible, I reach for My strangulation. I blame it for all the evil in the world: greed, bulimia, blusher, but I duly go to the newsagent and find them in the Shelves, cleaning with self-love. I take them home, spread them out and howl, "Save me glossies, save me!" and immediately I see a list of unattainable Claims. Take your Brain Shopping! Linger in Love Time! Say Goodbye to fungi! Stop Making You Fat stress! Think of happy! Wear a jumpsuit! Decode Your Sex Dreams! Feng Shui your asshole! (OK, I made the last one.)
And the more I stare at the pages, the more surreal is the advice. Cosmo suggests I stop emotionally Dumping on my cat: "Is your cat, your advisor?" Prima suggests that when cleaning up, "Points on the left below, and take it all in one Slip. "Thanks to Prima, there are, according to the company, a right way to climb to an aircraft. Step 4 is to" eat an avocado. "
I feel suddenly disoriented. I'm in my bedroom? Or am I standing in the middle of Wembley Stadium, with 86,000 Jewish mothers shouted at me?
I start at the top, with Tatler. Admittedly, Tatler does not really discuss this. This is not the point of Tatler. The point of Tatler is floating before you, taunting you with your disgusting plebbiness. This month, Tatler says I should go and buy a solid silver lid for my Marmite, and a 14-carat gold bra. This is not so much a "tip" as an incitement to burning down Cond Nast of the building, while wearing cheap clothing, no lip gloss and a smile.
But wait. Tatler also recommends a "Fabulous in High-Heels Master Class" given by an ex-ballerina called Sarah Toner. It teaches women how to walk in heels, super-stylish store Fembot falling over and bashing their brains to their tables. Well, that is interesting. I've had a couple of 4-inch Gucci spikes in my wardrobe for five years. You are what you call my sister "car boots. I do not wear I use it to kill flies. I plugged it into my pocket and go to Sarah in her studio near King's Cross to see.
She is slim and smiling. I waved the shoes to them. I do not think I can learn, perhaps, walk in them. "We do not rely on the heels of yet," says Sarah, and shall make me Some stretching exercises. After that my body is so relaxed that when I put the spikes and try to run, I can do it. Easy. I feel elated. I do not think Tatler published that nothing worth knowing about. I thought it was all Buffy de la Fluffy Muffy marrying Baron von Wank and laughing the proles all night long. So I feel a little mad.
I turn to that manifesto for malevolent pencil-women: Vogue. Vogue does not really seem to have any advice either, be it for, to buy everything you can to lift with your spindly arms. This month they are pushing Tartan, Denim and rompers, but there is absolutely no point in browsing for Designer clothes. It does not make it in my size. How can I know? Because I once walked into a Louis Vuitton Store at 1000 and demanded a dress in size 16 "Sold out, ma'am, "she sneered." Will not fat people's money? "I screamed back.
Maybe I should have something to do with my hair. A Friend once told me it looks like the ears of a friendly dog. "Dual Texture is one of the greatest season hair trends," says Vogue, in their customary splice of malice, advertorial and idiot-speak. The accompanying photograph shows a woman with two hairstyles on her head. The first is stolen from the corpse of Maria von Trapp been. The other is the lower half of a squirrel.
I call Toni and Guy, and a few hours later I am dashing through their doors. The stylist snips and blowing and tongs, and two hours later my hair is half soup bowl, half poodle. I look like Jean Harlow. I love it. But when I get out of the salon-cycle, rain it. My hair whimpers, sobs and throws himself into a bus. When I go home I feel like Animal from the Muppets.
But no matter. A new lover is whispering in my ear. It's Elle. The magazine spreads open on one side about breast cancer treatments. The first proposal is, my breasts with "filler" injection. This is inflate them for a whole year. No. So how about a "Thalgo bust modeling treatment"? This includes "The application of intensive for thermal mask to improve elasticity and firmness bust. "Please, no. I'm afraid of beauticians was. I once in a massage Switzerland awakened from a game a xylophone.
But I go to the Aquilla salon in London's Knightsbridge, where another incredibly smiley woman takes me to a windowless room. I imagine it is the kind of space, Lavrenty Pavlovich Beria is tortured people in. I strip off and she exfoliates my breasts with long, sweeping movements, as if she plays Piano. Then she wraps my breasts in gauze, and smears it with clay. The gauze hardens and when she pulls away, I have a piece of gauze with a print of my breasts on them. Wow. My breasts feel soft. (I can not believe I'm writing this here. I can not believe I am reviewing the elasticity of my breasts, am.) It is beautiful. It is in order. But what does it do? What is it?
And so on, Welke, to Cosmopolitan, the sex-crazed best friend stab you in the face. Cosmo has at least a work ethic among multiple orgasms, between sessions, and she recommends calling in thecareercoach.co.uk Ros, for the advice. Ros has an intensely sane sounding Scottish Woman. I confess, my chaotic work habits and they analyzed. Apparently my chaos "is a badge of honor" that I feel, "one wonders Employee makes. "Thus, we develop some mantras: I choose the slightly Stalinist" Order is Joyful. "At the end of the session, I have my promise Printer patched, and buy some light bulbs.
And now to my final glossy – the pint-sized ass-kicking, hyper-aggressive dwarf of the magazine world – Glamour. You beckons me with a bright red claws. "I will," she whispers, "for you the Glamour Psychic Hotline to call for a personal and confidential Reading with a genuine psychic for a mere 1.50 per minute from a BT landline. "So I have the Psychic Hotline telephone, and a man answers. He speaks very softly, and he sounds very tired. "Hello," he says. "I'm Martin." Martin says he will read my Tarot cards. I ask a few questions about marriage prospects, Career and my chances of lung cancer in cancer. He mutters, "Stay where you are at work, I may see double rings in your love life," and he advises me stop smoking. "You should not smoke. Pets do not smoke." Then he tells me energy is "bright". I wonder if he ever told Glamour readers that their energy is "boring"? What would she do if he did? Buy a new face?
The week is dead. So, how do I feel? Did the magazine Eat My Life? Did I think Mad? Did I Linger Over Suicide? Take My Arse Shopping? Well, the magazine had, I decided it in three toxic strains. Those who say that you are ugly. Those who say that you are stupid. And those who say both. I do not want to say why I Who Shagged Me Gerard Depardieu is a dream, ask yourself, what are missing in your own life. I do not want to tell to be in the upper half is the only part of the body seen in a crowd – so make it top priority ". I do not believe in the redemptive power of the cushions. So bye breast peeling and rompers. And Hello again, grim life. Oh, how I've missed you.

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Tag:china toys,glossies
From:http://www.buy-china-toys.com/

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