The Devil Wears Prada

by Lauren Weisberger

The light hadn't even officially turned green at the intersection of 17th and Broadway before an army of overconfident yellow cabs roared past the tiny deathtrap I was attempting to navigate around the city streets.

Omfg, not one sentence in and we already have grammar problems. And two paragraphs later, I'm already screaming at the narrator - this is the THIRD TIME you've snapped the heel of $700 shoes while driving?! Fucking buy cheaper shoes, drive in cheaper shoes, or take your damn shoes off while driving. I wanted a quick, brainless read, but if I'm stopping every four minutes to type-yell, this is going to take forever.

trying to ignore the dog's pitiful howls every time I accelerated.

Poor puppy. Are we supposed to like Andrea, or be actively rooting for her death?

The ride was actually over in six and a half minutes,

So...not 8 then. Wtf was the point of the previous sentence?

Mom and Dad were great, but being asked where I was going every time I left the house—or where I'd been every time I returned—got old quickly.

Preach.

if you're looking for fast, thin, sophisticated, impossibly hip, and heart-wrenchingly stylish, Elias-Clark is mecca.

I'm not.

While nearly all of them had enormous, glimmering diamonds on their ring fingers, it seemed impossible that any had actually given birth yet—

Since when does wearing a ring mean you must have given birth.

Lily hadn't yet decided whether she preferred MAC lipstick or hemp necklaces

You can only like one thing.

Because with her first year as a graduate student and my being a virtual slave, we hadn't seen a whole lot of each other lately.

Literally one paragraph ago: "...we hadn't spent any real time together since I'd moved to the city."

The elevator man smiled kindly at me and silently pressed the PH button after turning a key. He looked like a battered wife, dejected and sad, as though he couldn't fight any longer and had just made peace with his unhappiness.

Huh?

I couldn't bring myself to drink champagne from a straw out of a minibottle, you know? Something fairly emasculating about that.

Ugh.

“First historical” implied that there other were nonhistorical novels. Interesting. “What's it about?”

Also the fact that he said he'd written other books. Jesus.

And so after three months, I surrendered. I just got too tired. Emotionally, physically, mentally, the daily wardrobe ordeal had sapped me of all energy. Until, that is, I relented on the three-month anniversary of my first day.

Seriously, did no-one edit this?

“This, Andy, is what you should be wearing if you don't want to get fired.” He smiled, but he wouldn't look me in the eye.

So you're not "starting to think" you might get fired so much as you've explicitly been told. THIS BOOK IS DRIVING ME CRAZY.

if wearing a Prada turtleneck instead of one from Urban Outfitters was going to help me survive the next nine, then so be it. I decided I'd start putting together a new and improved wardrobe immediately.

THEN YOU DIDN'T DECIDE IT AT HOME WHEN YOU WERE"TOO TIRED" TO BOTHER! I don't think I've ever read a book before where the author seems to constantly forget what she's just written every couple of paragraphs.

I bolted from the cab, still happy to make someone else's day,

Tipping someone 3 fucking dollars is not going to make their goddamn day. This book is fast dropping into 1 star territory.

I felt a surge of sympathy and kindness.

Kindness is not an emotion. I can't keep doing this or I'll never finish this this goddamn book.

the Runway Paranoid Turnaround came on full-force. I became immediately nervous, almost paranoid,

ARGHHHHH

No need to be available for a date that was only two days away, and no real need to reveal existence of boyfriend . . . after all, it really wasn't any of his business. Right?

Ugh.

The confidence that had seemed so sexy before was now starting to sound a whole lot like arrogance. The only problem was that it made him sound even sexier.

Uuugggghhhh.

And no need to worry that pretty little head of yours—

UGH

“Girlfriend, don't look so down. This ain't torture, it's fun.

I hate so much about the things this book chooses to be.

Judith Mason,

Unloved daughter?

I author your travel articles

Oh.

Alex, Alex, Alex, I silently chanted, both determined to remember that I had a very loving boyfriend and disappointed with myself for having to force myself to remember that I had a very loving boyfriend.

I hate you so much.

I tried to protest, but Christian put two fingers to my lips. “Darling Andy, don't worry your pretty little head about it.” And before I could move my mouth out from underneath his touch, he reached his other hand behind my head and took my face in both hands.

Fuck you fuck you fuck you

He took my split-second hesitation to move away as permission,

I HATE THIS BOOK SO MUCH

But tonight she'd also looked sad, and not a little lonely.

Talk about show, not tell. Nothing I've just read gave any indication that this was the case.

And besides, I'd managed to ignore a couple strep throats, a few bouts of bronchitis, a horrific round of food poisoning, and a perpetual smoker's cough and cold and hadn't taken a single sick day in nearly a year of work.

Multiple cases of strep and bronchitis in less than a year? I doubt it.

she croaked in between fits of now annoying coughing.

Oh fuck off, Andrea.

Any quick jabs of sadness or concern from a few minutes ago had been swiftly replaced with irritation.

Nobody's emotions flow or make any contiguous sense from paragraph to paragraph. I JUST WANT IT TO BE OVER.

“I'm going to list all the reasons that you should come with me, Andy, and the first one is the simplest: I know what's good for you. Period.”

Fuck you.

God, he was arrogant. Why did I find it so endearing?

And fuck you.

have my mom microwave me some tea

WHO MICROWAVES TEA?!?

“Andy, darling, so glad you could make it,” he said, leaning in and kissing me full on the mouth—a bit intimate considering my mouth had been hanging wide open in disbelief.

Hey, guys? I know where Edward Cullen and Christian Grey come from.

“What the hell are you doing? Let go of me!” I squirmed away, but he just continued to grin that annoyingly adorable smile.

Yes, it's so annoyingly adorable when men try to control you through your career and force themselves on you constantly. Jeezus fucking Christ, I hate this book so much.

“Andy, since you seem to be a little slow on the uptake here, this is my house. My parents are hosting this party, and I was clever enough to have them ask your boss to bring you along. Did she tell you I was ten years old, or did you just decide that for yourself?” “You're joking. Tell me you're joking. Please?” “Nope. Fun, right? Since I can't seem to pin you down any other way, I thought this might work.

ARGHHHHHGGGGGGGGGHHHHHH

where he was leaning up against the frame with a smugly satisfied expression. “So, little Andy, did I show you a good time tonight?”

WHO FINDS THIS ATTRACTIVE. WHAT IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE.

It was almost as though—and I might be projecting here, but I don't think so—she had listened to me and understood.

Understood what? That you want to work for a magazine? Like the words you used in a language she happens to speak? Is this a necessary sentence? Or are you trying to say that it seemed like she understood the desire and drive to be a writer? Because that was not conveyed in any of the four words she used as a response, and writing this insipid inner dialogue doesn't make ot so.

the way he looked at me through those hooded lids with the persistent curl,

For anyone feeling dispair over the shape of the publishing industry after Twilight and Shades of Shit, let it be known that garbage writing was bestselling long before. At the very least, it's not a new development.

“Ahn-dre-ah!” she hissed, much too ladylike to ever make a scene.

Previous page: she mimicks Andy in a "hyena-like howl" and people turn to stare. How is this not making a bloody scene. Fuck I hate this book so much.

“Girls!” my mother screamed again. “Is anyone awake up there? Anyone? I don't care if you're still sleeping, just please tell me one way or the other so I know how many waffles to defrost!”

Snort. Maybe if this had been the whole book...

but I thought I'd managed to strike just the right chords of funny and touching.

Oh my god, is that what the author thinks she's done with this story?

As soon as I'd walked into her spacious but cluttered office and saw that she was—gasp!—fat, I had a weird feeling that I'd love her.

This is a real book that exists.