You find the October 2005 British edition of Harpers & Queen.
You read pages 147-148 of The Dress by Sam Binnie, which is part of Harpers fourth annual search for a new female writer with a unique voice (short story competition) run in conjunction with the Orange Prize for Fiction.
You realise that you are starting to get sick of books and short stories written in the "You buy X and realise that your life is spiraling out of control into the inevitable vortex of your own mediocrity. You think about painting the house blue to represent your own inner turmoil and tragedy at the irresistible longings for your own personal fulfillment. You go to Marakesh instead" form.
When you have finished reading the story, you realise that you are not interested in it and none of it applies to your life any way. Who buys a dress to woo back their "one true love" at the age of 20? Not you. You just got on with life and found someone far more fascinating. Reading about the dresses worn during pregnancy at 33 makes you shudder with horror. Isn't that too old to really be starting a family? you muse. For you, there can be no excuse for bad clothing during up-the-duffness anyway. If you ever have children, you swear to yourself, you will never wear a tent.
And hasn't this sort of writing been done before? you think to yourself as you flick over the page. The Bride Stripped Bare was where you first encountered it in a non-short story. That book was good for the first few times you read it, but then you realised that the story itself was painfully grating and made you want to ram the book down the garbage disposal. There would have been some sadistic pleasure you would have gained from such an action...
All you want is a holiday and a great new pair of shoes.
And an end to books that address you far too personally, far too inaccurately and far too smugly.
Pulp fiction indeed.
The irony is so hot.
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