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Ehmagod.

Reading The Clique is like attending an All-You-Can-Eat Cupcake Buffet where the hosts force you to gorge for three hours straight.

Upon receiving the invitation, you become immediately aware that the concept works better on paper than it does in execution. In fact, you might find yourself justifying your very intentions for participating, but still feel a guilty pleasure in the undertaking. Who knows? You might wind up enjoying yourself... even if you have to hide it from your friends. And if you hate yourself in the morning? That's okay. Life is for the living, and this is going to be an experience!

So you put on a bib and enter the buffet, only to realize that the cupcakes aren't from a lavish gourmet bakery. They're store-bought Entenmann's.

But you've signed up to participate! You can't back out now! Steeling your willpower, you grab the first artificially-flavored cupcake and nibble on the grade-D quality icing. You think, for the first and only time, "Yeah, this isn't going to be pleasant, but I can do it. I'll just pace myself." Nibble, nibble.

And that's when the host mashes the cupcake into your mouth and screams, "Eat it, you filthy pig! Eat it!" And with tears streaming down your face and pounds of terrible, gritty cake in your mouth, you come to the horrifying realization that if you had only trusted your gut instinct, you wouldn't be choking to death.

Hour Two hits, and your stomach is in full-on revolution mode. Every time your barf gland is irritated, another damned Entemann's is slammed down your gullet, preventing anything from coming up. You plead for mercy. You promise your first born child. You question the existence of God. You question your own morals. You choke down another cupcake. Another plaid-clad, bitchy cupcake.

"This is disgusting," you think. "This is base! There's no point to any of this!" You begin to slide out of consciousness, but another frosted Hell Cake is shoved into your mouth. Time, however, is soon on your side. The minutes are closing in, the seconds are ticking by... your three hours are almost up.

The alarm rings.

You vomit.

And you want to buy yourself a Burberry scarf.