I'm going to start my own magazine called, 'Womens' Weakly'. Yes, a weekly brain sucking parasite which spreads its words and pictures throughout its host organism, eventually strangling it to death. Why would I need anesthetic after being forced to read womens' magazines at the doctor surgery. All sensation has been numbed. I don't need to pay $7 for a flimsy compilation to tell me how to live my life. I know what food to eat, because my body tells me. I know what to wear because it feels good when I put it on. I don't particularly want to be in a relationship with someone who wears ridiculously white Calvin Klein undies.
What a waste of a tank of gas.
