* "New car, caviar, four star daydream" *

There are not many things that I am more sure about, excluding that the word "nice" should have never been invented and that chocolate is great before and after sex, than the fact that the word money is one of the most frequently used words in any language. English especially. The amount of cliche phrases that exists about money making the world go round and such is probably larger that the frequency of the world itself. So I shall not bore you with such whimsical and original hors de'oeuvres because it's been a long day and originality isn't unfortunately seeping out of my every pore at the moment.

However. As the immortal genius of Pink Floyd cares to suggest, one of the main things money is about is luxury. Beautifully dangerous Louboutin's clad on perfectly disguised imperfections of young women exploiting the monetary situation of their proximity, sniffing in lines of delicious cocaine through their neatly done noses while holding a piece of Coco in their French manicured fingers. Fabricated fantasy of horrid tabloid magazines and concerned mother's who get paid for writing a book about the same old shit not even said differently? No, ladies and gents. I am no stranger to money or the fraudulent phony world of social class. But what I find grotesque is that this hedonistic lifestyle has crept inside the minds of people not old enough to bear a driver's license. My comrades.

Can you imagine? Paint a picture in the sky... I open my closet, feel through the endless silk, lace, denim, cashmere, cotton, sequin and velvet carefully crafted in the hands of people like Mark, Karl, Zac, Stella and many others. Strapping on my crimson garters, I make my way into the porcelain bathroom where I spend an hour pomading my lovely puckered face with lotions, ointments, creams and administering picture perfect make-up. Hair voluptuous like Angie, I embellish myself in a perfect strapless Gucci. Not forgetting to place my stash of white heaven into my purse and slip into my Dolces, I open the door, slide into the cab with leather seats. I spend an evening in the most top class club in town, drinking my fancy Yoo-Hoo, excuse me, Cosmopolitan and flash my unnecessarily uncovered cleavage at the boys, no - not men, I came to impress. I am 16.

Many girls and boys in my proximity alike find this image so attractive they nearly live up to it. Nearly. As far as I'm concerned nobody is on coke. Although they do speak about it. Why is it that I don't find these things appealing? No need for speed in my old mind. How come I don't have the need to light up, sit in uncomfortable chairs listening to overrated DJs and pretend I can hear my friends, of course, till dawn? Of course, I am no virgin or innocent baby to any of these vices and pleasures, but it's like the French say, comme ci, comme ça. In my proximity, there are a few golden exceptions to this rule, people who can put simply, handle their shit. But a golden exception is there to prove a rule, a trend. Trend up your coke asses, my friends.

I am living life to the fullest. Against all odds without glance and glamour. Yet still wild, passionate and unusual. Of course I love a drink or two, fancy beautiful clothes that outline my figure, jewelry and expensive food. Yes, money makes me happy, let's not be hypocrites - it's what we all live on/off, but in no case does it float my boat. Ka-ching!

"Stack up your bills,

as you sign away your free will,

there's no need to represent,

the truth of self has now been spent."