Today, I was forced to look at a Vogue Magazine. Something that normally I would not give the time of day to, since I am so far removed from all that glamor and fancy smancy garb. The alternative would have been to people watch but those in my proximity were too depressing to gawk at. I was in this pseudo kinda gym called physical therapy, which actually was the antithesis of a work out room since probably being unfit is what brought us all together anyway. So rather than surmise why the elderly gentleman was being tortured so to sound like a squealing pig on market day while getting his leg bent backwards, I picked up said stray magazine which was only just a few months old. Who can afford or would want to dress like this? This Halloween parade of anorexic pubescents was surreal. You couldn't work in those clothes. You couldn't be comfortable in those clothes. The only reason for wearing those clothes is to get your picture taken so why bother? If I were to prance around in stilettos like that, surely I'd wind up being crippled in such bodily contortions that even a chiropractor could not untangle me. I'd be in need of medical attention and would end up where I already am. With other patients not wanting to look at me and looking at magazines they were not interested in.