Lauren Weisberger

compensate for her stuttering with a major attitude problem.

but the names of the superbigmoney, the superhighfashion, and the generally superimpressive had ceased to register as “special” on my desensitized brain

“Editorial,” snapped another hassled-sounding woman. I wondered if this is what I sounded like answering Miranda’s phone, and if not, then I aspired to it. It was such an enormous turnoff hearing a voice that was so incredibly, undeniably unhappy to hear from you that it almost made you just want to hang up.

he letter smelled like Jean Naté, that acrid-smelling toilet water– spray preferred by preteen girls the country over. But that wasn’t what was causing the tightness in my chest, the constriction in my throat. How many Anitas were there out there? Young girls with so little else in their lives that they measured their worth, their confidence, their entire existence around the clothes and the models they saw inRunway ? How many more had decided to unconditionally love the woman who put it all together each month—the orchestrator of such a seductive fantasy—even though she wasn’t worth one single second of their adoration? How many girls had no idea that the object of their worship was a lonely, deeply unhappy, and oftentimes cruel woman who didn’t deserve the briefest moment of their innocent affection and attention?

dedicated to the only three
people alive who genuinely believe it rivals
War and Peace:

my mother,Cheryl,the mom
“a million girls would die for”;

my father,Steve,who is handsome, witty,
brilliant, and talented, and who
insisted on writing his own dedication;

my phenomenal sister,Dana,their favorite
(until I wrote a book).