It was strange that the girl couldn’t remember what she had for lunch yet somehow knew every designer’s phone number by heart.

But right now, I felt depressed. This must be what that postpartum shit was all about. I’d given birth to a masterpiece, and now I was bored.

It’s fashion. No one really gets along.

If Blake Lively and Blake Lively had a baby, it’d be Sarah Elizabeth Taft.

Everyone knows that promotions are based on your social standing, no matter what Celia says. And you have none. You’re a total nobody. Seriously, no one knows who you are. Which is just so sad because you’re, like, really great.

She was crying over shoes. I wanted to slap her. I wanted to take those shoes and smash her head in.

I’d done it, I killed her, but it didn’t feel like I had. You know that feeling? Like when you unplug your flatiron but then aren’t sure you did?

So I made her get up. I told her to stop crying and get back to her desk.” Later I bashed those ugly shoes into her face.

Keep going! You can do it!” I was going to kill this bitch. “Everyone starts somewhere. Keep it up!” I was going to make her suffer. “Just ten more seconds!” I was going to rip her heart out and eat it on top of a giant plate of pasta.