![]() ![]() We craved cracks about, say, a douchey, self-impressed blond man of moderate height, minimal intellect, and Mephistophelian facial hair the best we get is a bitchy, vain boss who becomes a different person for the cameras ( Teen Vogue’s Lisa Love, mayhap?). The gold standard, Nicole Richie’s secretly awesome The Truth About Diamonds, refers to the Paris Hilton character as functionally retarded compared to that, L.A. Could she write better than she feigned interest in her Hills jobs? Could she write better than she designed A-line jersey dresses? Could she write, period? And how much transparent gossip would L.A Candy contain? We swallowed our pride - for you, dear readers, for YOU - and blazed through Lauren’s magnum opus so that you don’t have to. ![]() Candy, the first in a loosely autobiographical young-adult series, we’ve been dying of curiosity. (Announcing “It’s for WORK, we SWEAR” only made the clerks more skeptical.) But from the moment LC announced she’d be penning L.A. There is something tragic about dashing out first thing in the morning to purchase a hot-from-the-storeroom copy of Lauren Conrad’s debut fiction novel. ![]()
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