I threw out all of my magazines.
There was a big stack accumulating in the bathroom. Decorating magazines, parenting magazines, cooking magazines, “let us tell you how to live a better life because you are incapable of figuring it out” magazines.
Pounds and pounds of magazines with shiny ads telling me what to buy. Get this fancy organic lotion for your baby and he will have an amazing life! Look at the cute pattern on the bottle! Buy this and everyone will know how much you love your little one!
A teetering slippery stack of magazines with hundreds of articles telling me what to do, when, where, and why.
Model children, model moms, model dads, look at their big bright smiles, don’t you wish you could be half as fabulous as them?
Enough! I’m done.
The magazines make me feel insecure. Like I have to buy this toy or my kids will be dumb or I need to cook this recipe or my life will be empty and hollow or I have to watch this television show or I’ll be a miserable wretch.
Holy shit, I don’t need magazines to tell me how to live my life. All they do is fill my head up with a thousand voices clamoring for my attention.
Goodbye, entertainment magazines! If there’s an awesome new television show, my sister will tell me about it.
Goodbye, parenting magazines! I know how to raise my children, thank you very much.
Goodbye, decorating magazines! I don’t need you to tell me about this season’s trendy colors and must have decorations.
I banished about ten pounds of magazines to the recycling bin. It feels like I lost about five hundred pounds of emotional weight.
p.s. It took me at least a minute to remember how to spell “recycling.”