Slowly and mechanically, without really seeing anything, I leafed through the pages of a big fat, silky Ladymag. My mind barely ticking over.
I leafed on, one small corner of my inner being carrying on its continual battle with the imps of hell which keep raging down there, begging me to get started on my true, career as a firebomb terrorist or a graffiti scrawler. Now, I'm not the kind who spends much time looking over gurleymags of the Cosmo stripe, although I find their banner headlines on the cover-page more than slightly great: "Forty-Nine New Exciting Orgasms, A Smashing Color feature!" Or: "Fifty-Three Famous Women Reveal Their Top Secrets For Sensuality!" Or, a real chiller, blunt and to the point: "What To Do When He Won't Marry You." Holy Gloria Steinem, I breathed, hurrying faster through the steaming pages filled with quivering, Jello-y gurleyprose. I skimmed through. "What You Can Learn From French Girls," which was a hell of a letdown since it yammered on about how to dress, when actually the best thing anyone can learn from French girls is how to undress with style. . .