Twenty-five years old and she wasn’t back to work yet– not at least in the eyes of others; she knew she was quite hard at work, writing her first novel, the next smash amongst the pre-teen and teen set. Who knows, the novel was just progressing, and she didn’t know if she wanted to drive into chick-lit direction. It wasn’t too late. She could already see it on HBO– the next Sex and the City, based on her novel.
She had just come back from a yearlong trip abroad, exploring beautiful sights of nature and cosmopolitan wonders– the Licancabur volcano in Chile, a French man in her bed, and shoes. Do not forget the shoes. So many things seen, so many buttery croissants eaten! Her year of travels was worth at least– three novels.
But she found– the words were not developing up to speed. So she blogged, posting neck-down photos of outfits she planned to wear the next day, solidly stylish, and as well as photos of food she ate at various expensive restaurants in Asia, while writing about the books she read, the verbose literary magazines that decorated her apartment– and made sure with a nonchalant manner. This is key. Oh this? Just my everyday life!
Oh, men! They were infatuated. Women just a few years older saw through it– they had all played the worldly, literary snobbish role before and eventually realized it was out of confusion, being lost and unsure, this– Trying Too Hard. They kept silently embarrassed while younger girls and men fawned.
Please write about your preferences and opinions strictly! I absolutely adore this, I despise that– Indeed, they become affirmations, your badge that declares like a morning bugle: This is who I am.
She read Kundera one day describing Laura, an unlikeable character, and how she wore dark glasses not to hide her sadness, but as notification to everyone, telling the world, “I am sad! These dark glasses bring it to your attention!”
Immediately she went to her computer and got her credit card ready, looking for perfect dark glasses.