Here’s a confession I need to make: I read Cosmopolitan. And by read, I don’t mean browsing through the pictures in the dentist’s waiting room, and shaking my head with mild disapproval. No, I actually go out of my way to spend a precious 2 pounds (or 3.50, depending on the gift) on an issue of Cosmo every single month. Embarassing, I know. I usually buy it along with New Statesman, just to save my face in front of the pretty guys working at WH Smith.
For the next week, I’ll write nothing but reviews of haute couture shows. I’ll praise some, criticize others, and even give them star ratings.
Who am I to dare even think of questioning the megnificence of Dior or the genius of Karl Lagerfeld? Why, a young girl who tackled putting words into sentences and managing a simple WordPress site. In a word, a blogger.
I owe a lot to Roland Barthes. My relationship with him is like H&M’s with Prada and the likes: I make a career of either quoting him (in pretty much every CSM essay) or poorly ripping off his style and ideas (my Overanalyzing series). Therefore writing anything negative about this book will mean biting the (however dead) hand that feeds me. But I’ll do it anyway, even though my consciousness hopes it’ll make me fat.