“We meet at The Electric, a private member’s-only club in Notting Hill. A latte for me, an espresso for Flo. We split a pistachio donut, oh yes, and a goblet of water. We have our usual girl talk- catching up about boys mostly…Anyway, we prance out of the club, because Florence only moves by prancing…[italics mine]” (Kennedy, Cory. (2013). florence in bloom. Nylon. 14: 6, p. 60) .
Granted, some of the deep loathing inspired by this piece may come from the horrible writing style of the author (a goblet of water? a goblet? Who do these people think they are, King Arthur and Queen Susan of Narnia combined?) But “only moves by prancing”? Prancing? I ask you, Gentle Reader, do you have any friends who only move by prancing? And if so, how is it that you haven’t murdered them already?
Where are the good old days, where somebody could sing a song (that is all she had done, right? She hasn’t cured cancer or solved world hunger, has she?) without feeling they had to prance about London eating pistachio donuts (sorry, sounds gross) and drinking goblets of water to make a point about how cool and fabulous they are? Oh god, the pretentiousness, the pretentiousness. Take it away- it is killing me.