Blanche: I don't believe this. I just don't believe it.
Dorothy: Blanche, what's the matter?
Blanche: Listen to this. "Vixen stared at herself in the mirror, her pouty lips, her flaxen hair, her flawless alabaster skin. Her proud breasts seemed to be saying, 'Is it just me or is it cold in here?'"
Dorothy: So?
Blanche: Pouty, flaxen, proud? What do you need? A photograph? This book is about me!