I am writing you this letter, alongside my husband and dog, from a closet the size of a dressing room at Target. We have nowhere else to turn and our time is running out. You see, as I scribble this on an orange neon Post-It note, there are several dozen back issues of The Oprah Magazine, Backpacker, Sunset, Utne, Acoustic Guitar, Real Simple and The Shambhala Sun breathing heavily on the other side of the door planning our demise. GET THE HELL OUT HERE AND READ US, YOU LOSERS!, they yell, their paper torsos making terrifying swishing noises. Cupcake, can you help us? Can you provide us with the tools to sit our asses down and read all these magazines or can you give us the strength to throw them all in the dumpster. We have nowhere else to turn. Please tell us—should we burrow underneath the city and find a bunker to hide in or should we just surrender ourselves to these vicious periodicals and hope for the best?
—Fearful For Our Lives in Fullerton