When I was little, my grandma would receive these fat, thicker-than-a-phonebook "Quelle" (the 'source') catalogues. I would cut out pretty women in sundresses and lingerie, pretty girls in shorts and braids, handsome dark, tall men to go with them, accessories galore like gloves and hats and jewelry; and then of course sofas and coffee tables and lamps; refrigerators and ovens and microwaves; and lawnmowers and toolsheds and pretty sheets and fabrics and throws. There was nothing I couldn't have, nothing I couldn't make mine. Today, the same exercise with the latest issue of Elle didn't yield the desired results, just an empty need, a gnawing humger for Balenciaga's Bauhaus sandals and Jessica McCormack jewelery. And overall a feeling of want, of not having enough, of being a dope for not having the millions to buy the million things I crave, which aren't even real except for on the pages of a magazine---just like those pretty girls with their hats and refrigerators and Louis XIV imitation chairs.
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