The new Purple mag hit NYC newstands late Friday night. We grabbed ours Saturday morning after a hellish massage experience. You know, one of those where your muscles become more tense every time you feel the masseuse prepping for her next lunge? Yup, one of those.
So upon leaving, with all the toxins running through our dizzy little head, we wobbled to the nearest int’l newstand for the new issue of our favorite mag. The intention was to indulge in a hot bubbly soak when returning to the condo and delving into the Terry Richardson section. However, our pathetic limbs couldn’t support the weight of this mammoth book. We simply cursed the little (yet surprisingly strong) Russian woman who put us in this state and soaked into a dreamstate.
