These Are a Few of My Favorite Things

It has dawned on me, like the first time I saw a fake Louis, that some of you psychos may not have the slightest inkling of what I am talking about when I refer to "Tory," or "Tory Burch." However shocking to me this sad fact may be, I feel I must explain nonetheless. Since 2004, when Tory first entered the world, and my world, no gift or shopping spree has ever been the same. Since then, I have scoured every gift table, stocking, and Christmas tree for these brightly colored boxes, that have been tied so tightly, and yet so loosely with their signature brightly colored grosgrain ribbon, which compliments and binds them so well. The whole company was founded in Manhattan. That just oozes chicccc with multiple C's. Spawning from a super stylish gene pool, who could argue with Tory's fabulous designs of clothing, accessories, handbags, shoes, eyewear, and fragrance? Disagree with me? Disagree with Tory? Just ask Forbes mag; Tory is one of the Most Powerful Women in the World. Who are you again?

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Someone Call the Exterminator

This is the worst travesty since Hilary Duff got a Birkin. Tory, what in the actual hell were you thinking releasing a pattern like this? Spare me. Now follow my advice: go straight to your shrink and have him prescribe you a bottle of two milligram Xanax. Drop off your scrip, pick up your scrip, and take one xanny. Light up a Marlboro Smooth, and brace yourself for what I am about to say to you. This “Robinson” print thing: has. Got. To. Go. Everyone has his or her fugly moment, and I must be the one to tell you the truth - you’ve hit yours. When I first laid my heavily Le Volume De Chanel mascaraed eyes on Mrs. Robinson, I instantly fainted. I realized, upon awakening, that I had written you this sort of poem about this atrocity:

Burch.

Bag.

Bug. BUG.

I so hate bugs.

Not.

Chic.

After I read my “poem,” I immediately had Walter, my cook, call the exterminator. He didn’t get it.

I don’t get it.

Leave Simon and Pumba their grub. These bags look like something crawling across my penthouse kitchen counter in Charleston. It’s horrible and it really scared me. Another move like this, and trust me, you will be put in a straightjacket. Love you, bye.

“I need money in my account for books when you get a chance please,” I nonchalantly text mother before entering my last and longest class. Of course I’m getting books, psycho, but I’m sure to leave out one chic little detail. The Tory Burch Eddie flat, in sand. I will have this staple in my wardrobe before the cool air of fall comes upon me, even if I have to starve a little to acquire them. It’s been done before. I’m going to hell, but I don’t care, as long as I look super chic getting there, wearing those cute little sand snakeskin flats as I walk over the fiery coals. I mean, let’s be honest, it’s not like you’ve never slightly exaggerated to lean matters in your favor, right? Hardly a dime of the expenses for my schooling has ever come from mother anyway. The generous alimony and child support she’s received tends to get injected into her face instead, so I don’t really feel that terrible about treating myself a teensy bit.