Let's be the day to day life of Anna Wintour

I'm one of her wigs.

I'm late 1990s chic, where Anna's personal asthetic comes to a halt. I'm represented by a Starbucks takeaway cup, a flip phone, and a dutch boy haircut.

For someone that's all about latest trends in fashion she sure hasn't adapted to tge fashions of the last decade huh.

I'll be the seals she clubs and skins for her new coat.

A baby seal slides into a bar. The bartender asks 'What'll it be?".

The baby seal says, "Anything but a Canadien Club."

I am Kim Kardashioan and Kanye West, whose appearance on the cover of Vogue signaled the moment AW lost all credibility.

I'm the steak that bleeds out for her daily at luncheon.

I'm the hard-boiled egg she eats for breakfast at 6 a.m. before an hour of tennis.

*sour and sopping wet*

I am kanye's stank breath being blown on Anna's face because miss kanye is not happy how ho'ish her beard wife looks on the cover.

I'm the sunglasses worn inside.

I'm her 10 p.m. bedtime.

I'm Grace Coddington. I'm deeply resentful that nobody gives a shit about me anymore but SHE gets to sit with HM.

I'm her old fake stupid looking face

I'm the twenty minutes she spends at social events before slipping away to be home for the 10:00 p.m. bedtime.

[post redacted because linking to dailymail.co.uk clearly indicates that the poster is either a troll or an idiot (probably both, honestly.) Our advice is that you just ignore this poster but whatever you do, don't click on any link to this putrid rag.]

I'm her twice daily blowout.

I'm a chunky necklace.

She really does dress like a sourpuss secretary, doesn’t she? One who works in an elementary school.

I'm the clogged arteries from her high fat, high animal protein diet.

I’m her all-white Vogue staff. I make $35k a year but i draw out $400k from my trust fund so it doesn’t matter

I'm all the articles Anna doesn't read when she's "editing" her magazine.

When you are THAT rich and THAT many assistants following you around 24/7, why do you need an iPhone?

That appears to be the same phone I am using now. For someone who doesn't spend all day playing games or watching videos it's very convenient.

I'm the papier mache, chicken claw hands.

Let's not.

[quote] Let's be the day to day life of Anna Wintour

Let's not. Have you seen her hands and arms? They are utterly disgusting

Sleeves, Miss Wintour. It’s time.

I'm the pretense that she's not being fired after her daughter's wedding.

I'm the Father who entered her room at 3am nightly to make her a walled-off, horrendous Cunt.

You know, Meryl’s character in Devil Wears Prada really was much more stylish than AW. Anna looks like a fusty secretary. That she has any involvement in fashion is silly.

Other generations got Vreeland, Snow, Mirabella, all witty, stylish, interesting editors. Wintour is such a cipher, really a complete and utter BORE. A snotty, stony nothing who should be sorting timecards or explaining benefits packages to new employees. How the fuck did she rise to such prominence? Can someone please enlighten me? I know she’s rich, but there are plenty of rich brats who work in the arts. She must have fucked or scammed her way to the top, she must have compromising information on some important people. There is no other explanation.

Has she EVER done even one memorable or original thing that benefitted art or fashion? Her single most noteworthy accomplishment seems to be having put celebrities instead of models on the cover of Vogue. That was her greatest contribution to fashion. It’s shameful. I cannot wait for her to ship off and be forgotten.

I'm her fourh Starbucks coffee of the day, handed to her at 3 p.m. by a fashionably dressed underling, as she walks briskly to a meeting with an advertiser.

I'm cerulean blue.

[quote]I'll be the seals she clubs and skins for her new coat.

I'll be the seals she clubs for fun.

I'll be liver spots.

And I will not be denied.

I'm Andre Leon Talley, wondering aloud to the NYT how she could be cruel.

I'm her sense of humour, so you might mistake me for a unicorn.

I'm boring.

I’m the 90decibel rant she levels randomly and viciously.

I’m the stick firmly lodged up her @ss

I am the drawers of Estee Lauder products in her bathroom, I am working so well .....

I'm a single carb.

I've been nowhere near her body since the year 1976.

I'm the memory of her.

I will cease to exist entirely less than ten years after she has died.

I'm Graydon Carter.

She remembers me occasionally and thinks: "Well, I suppose things could be worse."

I'm her horrific sinewy and bony elderly hands that no plastic surgery can ever, ever, ever hide (see OP"s photo).

I'm the back seat of the chauffeur-driven Maybach that cradles her anorexic ass en route to her daily appointments.

R8 is doing me no favors.

I'm Meryl.

I claimed I did not base my characterization of Miranda Preistly on Anna Wintour.

And I told the truth.

I am the Metropolitan Museum of Art's costume collection.

Late at night I stare up at the ceiling and whisper "Why?"

I’m the psychiatrist ex-husband who realized after 15 years of treatment, there was no fixing this crazy sociopathic bitch.

I'm Lauren Weisberger. After about five minutes of reading me you will almost feel sorry for Anna.

I never understood why someone who's had the same hairstyle for decades and is suffering from failing vision is given so much power and has the ability to set trends.

I 'm her daughter because I have the hot Italian man candy

I am her assistant that curses the cunt 7,173,632 times per day

I'm the cold passing and unforgiving hands of Father Time, that no surgery, no wig, nor any shrieking can ever counteract.

Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock, tick tock...

I'm all the accusations and rumors about Terry Richardson, that she ignored for years.

"...older now than Mirabella when she..."

"...and Grace Coddington has all the talent..."

"...yet who even remembers Carmel Snow today..."

"...past her prime..."

"...and at least you could say Diana Vreeland was amusing..."

"...and for her, menopause was a full twenty years ago..."

I'm her dried out old pussy that hasn't seen a dick since Cats was first on Broadway.

I'm the Devil, just waiting patiently for her to spend eternity with me in a pink polyester jump suit and crocs.

I'm the shocking lack of response to this thread.

I'm Miss Wintour's coterie of ruthless assistants

Who scurrying ahead of Miss Wintour, attempting to banish any ugliness or banality

That Miss Wintour might otherwise encounter

I'm Kal Ruttenstein, America's leading garmenteau of yore, admitting in a limo en route to an awards ceremony to honor Anna as his Muse that he didn't even like women, especially her.

I'm who she's talking to when people hear her muttering: out, damned spot.

I'm the Court of St. James, to which she will never be ambasarress.

I'm Bob Marley's big, black cock that she didn't suck in the 1970s.

"Hmmmm let me procure a stable of young models and send them off to Harvey Weinstein.....oh wait I forgot he was arrested. Ha ha ha OLD HABITS DIE HARD"

I’m Roger Federer, chained to her side.

I miss my flip phone. Something satisfying about snapping it shut when you're done.

I'm the vice president of the American division of a high end Italian fashion house who sees her at a gathering and goes up to her to say hello and the first thing out of her mouth is not Hello or How are you? but Where is(name of owner of the company!)

And by the way she and the owner of the company hated each other.

I'm the intoxicating sillage of vinegar, disdain and dust that linger after Wintour exists a room.

Share more, r68! How did you respond? What else did she say? What other run-ins have you had with her?

How is she an icon?

She looks like any average elderly woman.

[quote]That appears to be the same phone I am using now. For someone who doesn't spend all day playing games or watching videos it's very convenient.

Yeah, I don't know what the OP is talking about, flip-phones have been making a comeback. Wintour hasn't switched to a smartphone, she is a rebel flip-phone user.

Who even makes phone calls anymore?

I’m her poor old poontang that’s a dry, menopausal apocalyptic wasteland.

I'll have my girl call your girl . . .

I'm her newly revealed eyelid surgery.

I'm a sudden craving for avocados.