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7:37 p.m. - October 02, 2001 I'm addicted to trashy magazines. Seventeen, YM, Twist, Jane, Cosmo, the whole bit. I admit it. I love them. They're hilarious. I buy them by the load, take them home, and pore over every single article, advice section, embarrassing moment section, sex section, 'it happened to me' section, like it's the personal diary of someone fascinating and long-dead, or the first edition of the Bible, or translations from the Rosetta Stone. I am fascinated by the audience they play to; I am intrigued by the way they can manage to say the same thing over and over again, but still manage to disguise it. I read the personal accounts with glee and gusto, as if they're works of Proust. I've been known to fall off my bed laughing hysterically with the magazine wedged under my hopelessly shaking body. I'm addicted. That isn't to say I take them seriously; I don't apply them to normal life situations at all, but, fucking jesus, I'm addicted. I sit around and wonder what it must be like to be the kind of girl who takes advice from these magazines, who goes out and tries their pick-up lines, who actually waits five dates before sleeping with a guy. Alternately, the kind of woman who thinks up elaborate plans to sleep with the first hot man that crosses her path, made up in the month's latest. Things that I can't comprehend make me so slap-happy. I giggle all the way home. These crazy lives that I'll never know.
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