Hi! My name is Vittoria and I’m a fashion magazine addict.
Yesterday I helped my cousin move out from her apartment. We were looking for stuff to keep and stuff to throw away. I heard her saying to my mother “Well, look here: late 90s Vogue, Elle, Marie Cla..”
She couldn’t finish the sentence because I literally ran her over to grab all I could grab.
My mom was looking at me like I was a hoarder with a bad anxiety attack – or Gollum – while I was screaming “Elle! Mine! Marie Claire! Mine! Mine!”, and tried to dissuade me from bringing home 17 kg of fashion magazines. She failed – she probably gave up when she noticed that my intellect had miserably vanished (that’s when I was running around in the house crying “Look! Gisele Bundchen when she was like 12!”, “Ninety-nine! NINETY-NINE!”, and “Shalom Harlow on the cover! My preciousss!”).
Today, just to avoid being featured in a Hoarding: Buried Alive episode – and to prevent a Marie Claire-induced death by suffocation, I cleaned all the issues and neatly put them away with all my other magazines. I’m quite proud of my job.
That is, if the cupboard doesn’t collapse during the night.
I may scan something in the future.5