Dearest Ann,
I realize you are a fashion monolith in New York City, and probably have little time for me, a loyal customer. Yet my hurt is too great to bear. After all we have been through together!
I tolerated your Ruffle Phase, your Faux Diamond Tire Chain Phase, the Sorbet-Hued Phase, Ribbon-ated Everything Phase. You lure me with the bad-ass slasher sales, and the discounts from a certain store manager because we have the same middle name. You know I am powerless when your underage garment workers know they get an extra millet for lunch if they tailor the clothes to measure about 4 sizes larger than the standard, putting me in a size negative 11. And despite the fact that I have four beaks to feed, I still find ways to rationalize every A.T. purchase. The right ruched turtleneck is a business expense (read: tax deduction), so bite me, IRS. Sadly, your betrayal goes beyond any commitment I may have to you. And I think you know exactly what I am talking about:
Allowing a certain Zombie-tologist to be your New Face of Ann Taylor??? Seriously??? A Vicodin-esque blank stare, a half-smile engineered by her Evil Puppeteer Thetan-Husband, and a desire to gain spiritual Nirvana thru a cult whose leader’s name sounds like “Miscarriage?” What the hell is up with that? She is supposed to inspire Fashion Greatness? Give me a break. You might as well have scoured the morgue and propped up the most recent overdose victim in a scarf and sensible pumps.
"I've been a fan of Ann Taylor since I was a young girl -- I grew up loving the clothes," quotes the New Face. WHAA? Didn’t she have a Fonzie t-shirt from Sears Junior Bazaar? Or a pair of piped terry cloth shorts? “Loving the clothes” as a “young girl,” is more effed up than believing that Thomas Cruise Mapother IV will transport her to Mystical Destiny in a spaceship. (Oh wait, she already does believe that). Consider your buying public. If she ends up on a billboard, it will be like a Stepford Wife IMAX feature.
You have time to make this right and mend our relationship. Remove the Fem-bot and replace her with someone acceptable, someone with a pulse.
It’s either Katie Holmes or me, Bitches. You pick.
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