The United States would be mistaken to take for granted the dollar's place as the world's predominant reserve currency. Looking forward, there will increasingly be other options to the dollar.
—World Bank President Robert Zoellick

In June of last year, the small country of O, known (if at all) for producing two world chess champions, took the extreme measure of converting its beleaguered currency, the farrut, to the US dollar. Having suffered from hyperinflation for the past decade, the so-called dollarization program was an attempt at stabilizing a frail economy. A handful of small nations, including Ecuador and the Virgin Islands, have successfully used the US dollar instead of their own currency.

On June 26^th the farrut became officially null and void as legal tender in O, and the dollar, which had been introduced gradually into circulation over the previous months, became the only recognized currency in the country. Farruts could be exchanged at the Bancu Centrale at the rate of 127,000 farruts to the dollar, up until July 3^rd.

As is widely known, on July 5^th the United States government defaulted on its loans. Overnight the dollar became all but worthless. While world economic markets reeled, O's Finance Minster, fighting to save the economic pulse of his small republic, sold state industries to the highest bidder; he used the resulting cash to establish the euro as the country's new currency. As a result, the European bank-cum-corporation Santander owned 80% of O's industries.

Cosmopolitan Magazine taught me that every woman of taste and sophistication has a signature fragrance, a signature color, a signature lipstick,  a signature signature if she can pull it off, and—the ultimate je ne sais quoi—a signature piece of jewelry.

Forty years ago, I was a socially hungry teenager in a  strict, repressive home. I secretly read Cosmopolitan magazine, scared to death my mother would find me with it. I lived the life of a shy, studious bookworm, but oh, how I longed to be a Cosmo girl.

She was almost skipping. His name was Kenny and he was from Jacksonville (or Tucson) and she wasn’t a slut because they had stayed up all night, three condoms, four glasses of water, one time, he called her “babe” and twice, he asked if she needed another pillow.