Bill, bill, junk, bill, junk, catalog of depression.Yes that's right. Catalog of depression. You open the pages and envy strikes you right in the heart. Pow. Right there, sister. You'd like that pillow? Can't have it. You'd like that table? Fuhgettaboutit. How about that curtain? NEVER! Take that in the kisser. Pow pow.
These glamorous catalogs sometimes invade my personal space. Their glossy pages contain over-stylized, perfectly designed little sets. They aren't just selling you a couch for a millioin dollars, they are selling that white paneling on the back wall, the ever-so-perfect gray/blue paint color, the fresh flowers in every nook and cranny of your house. Sheesh. It makes my house feel sheepish. It's ashamed of the kitty hair on the floor and it's faded rugs and that spot in the sink that won't go away. How dare you make my house feel bad. I know what I'll do...I'll throw the catalog of depression directly into the trash with the left over spaghetti and mash it around just a little. Take that, perfectionist.
I wish they had a catalog of not-so-perfectness. One that shows messy colors and oops marks. But I gues if I really wanted that I could just take a bunch of pictures of my house. My nice, cozy, all-too-colorful-for-anyone's-good house.
Ok. End of rant.
Does anyone know for sure if the Rapidograph is really going to be discontinued?