Musings

I need a Pacey in the streets and a Dawson in the creek.

All these other girls are out at the club and I'm just like Nutella public relations wine

Tinderella: Tinder Is the Night,

Tinder; If there ever were an app that perfectly showcased the rampantly impending decline of today's worthless idiotic Generation of the RichandLazyKids.com- it would be Tinder. Or as I like to call it, Basic People meeting Average looking fools looking to get their rocks off in a bar that is only cool to people from New Jersey. 

 I haven't been this embarrassed since Jacque Chirac did not show up for Reagan's funeral, but I soon forgave him when I did lines with his daughter on the Chairlift in Gstaad. A story for another time, but I have to recommend Cecily for the Massage Apres Ski, she also went down on me. 

I digress, by all means. Since the dawn of time, the high end club scene and Pretentious SpeakEasy Platform showcase the desperate throngs of teenagers and young adults  hurling drunkenly against each other to the beat of Pon De Replay in the hopes of stumbling into what would be best a barely there orgasm with a low Tier McKinsey Exec- and at worst an asberger like grinding session that looks like Talent Night at Local Mental Hospital USA. So Je Understand the complexities of meeting attractive likeminded narcissistic quality wealthy men who can provide the lifestyle to which we are accustomed. 

To set the scene, I was dressed in H and M for Marc Jacobs armed with my vogue Cigarettes, Chanel bag Stolen from the 5th floor at Neiman Marcus in 2004, and copy of Harvard Business School Review peaking out ever so slightly.  I was getting plastered over Martinis and Benzo's and 6 packs of orbit gum with several of my JP Morgan acquaintances with whom I entertain getting cocktails with, on the off chance that I get proposed to so that they can bankroll my lifestyle of boob jobs and soul cycle with a side order of manicures and machine gun shopping. 

"Let me guess" I said, peering over my colleague's phone to get a glimpse of my competition. From the looks of her profile I can already tell she got kicked out of Harvard Westlake, did a stint at Promises, works at Sotheby's, her father beats her mother, and gives excellent head."

"Sold" he said. 

The light of their Tinder apps nearly blinded me not just because of the poor pathetic excuses of females with whom they agreed to match with, but because I am a sophisticated Ratchet Artistocrat who cant stand cell phones at the table unless we are looking at appropriate filters of nude pictures of myself. 

I understand that Romance is deader than stock in Evian Water, but matching based on the hopes of a pythagorean theorem isosceles triangle equation of a prototype of  32 C Cup, sand kernel IQ,  and diagonal lined with an ambiguous eastern European background cubed with the lack of interest of a real relationship manifesting- only favors the boys, who frankly aren't making enough money for you to put out. 

So my fellow lovely manic bulimic celine bag wearing hotel bar hopping wrist slitting blow job giving alcoholics, Why settle for a polo shirt douche bag who's biggest accomplishment is that he date raped Every Tri Delt below the Mississippi and makes a measly 80K that can barely finance basic necessities like your pure bred yellow lab trips the groomers your netflix, and klonopin prescription? My advice, which you should never take, unless you like illegal things that involve racial slurs and Middle Eastern Gang bangs, is to liquidate your trustfund and focus on the generation that thinks faxing is the tits. 

See you at the St. Regis. 

Why your Marriage Failed

You asked her to sign a pre nup that included a time frame for baby weight loss and a requirement of two blow jobs not including bank holidays and the day before memorial day.

She caught your hooker wearing her jewelry

You invested an impossibly large sum with Bernie Madeoff and drunkenly told several at a dinner party back in 2002 that he was quote arguably the coolest dude on the planet endquote

Your son was hit by a drunk driver.

When you fucked the Tennis Instructor you accidentally taped it over reruns of Season 1 Scandal.

Your in-laws are Jews

Second Generation and Oil Money: A love story.

Alas, not quite new money, this is the generation that is an awkward type of comfortable with their money, and awkward comfortable meaning like a backrub from Grandpa and not the rich kind. Rich, another word like moist conspiculously offensive and only mentioned in closed doors. Otherwise its of African Descent and Well to do. The second generation money has wealthy parents but who did not come from money and are not new money because they did not create it themselves thus making them the laziest of their kind. Myself for example, I came from second Gen oil Money and not the Christmas tree Rockefeller Jr. kind, the Brad Pitt Midwestern Kind where writing checks for deaf kids with cerebral palsy buys class chic c'est la vie. Dont get me wrong, I still bought big breasts and bigger bags of coke and carried my midwest blood like a toddler who refused to let go of her Nanny.

I hung out with boys who used words like epic throw down, immediately a surefire sign that I should steer clear. My upbringing had a false sense of taste and my parents bought books on Matisse and Cezanne in the hopes that their MidWestern low tier educations would hide behind their children's correct pronunciation of foie gras and delacatessien. Undoubtedly I was homeskewled until I was 15 and could spot a fake Renoir from Venus and knew which fork to use closing my eyes blind folde during a rape role play fantasy. 

Off the Coast of Sardinia and Date Rape: Based on a Vrai Story

 I had just landed in Sardinia. I was 16 and half a virgin. I was staying with my aunt who suffered from Dementia and narcissism. Her husband was a wealthy Hedge Fund Executive who siphoned funds from Switzerland and fled to Italy before he could be extradited. He thought I was sexy as he immediately looked me up and down and kept his thigh on my leg as we drove from the airport to their Villa.
He told me I was pretty and I told him I had a boyfriend. When we arrived at the Villa Aunt Greta had already sliced watermelon and laid out bellinis. She hired a chef for the summer named Vincenzo who was 17 and didn't speak English. Her villa was small but comfortable and I suddenly realized that there was no cocaine in this little town. Luckily I had a gram in my bra that I knew security had seen as I boarded my JFK flight but he let it slide with a wink in his eye. I decided to ration it and use it as bait to make Vincenzo talk to me, drugs like music were the universal language. I was determined to lose my virginity but not to my pyramid scheming incestual uncle. While I enjoyed masturbating to him as my young body and supple vag turned him on, I had had enough therapy to think that action through and knew that sleeping with him would render me incapable of enjoying a satisfying sex life even before I hit the 11th grade.
My mother was a Nazi German Aunt Greta said, Dear friends with Eva Braun, and let me tell you she knew exactly what was going on.

August Goals

Bedazzle my Prenup
Apply for an internship at Bain and Isis
Get my stepchild into a First Tier Preschool else homeskewl

Get an Instagram with Putin
Find my G Spot
Register at Baccarat
Melt my dead Grandmother's amethyst into a bullet
Get Guns back on Craigslist
Read Exodus and Genesis
Get a Crystal Healer Certification
Create a new laxative

Properly cut an apple
Not be a cunt to my doorman
avoid getting bloodstains on my sheets
Get a Chanel Tattoo on my ass

Most of My Best Friends I have met waiting for an abortion

Alas, Wearing condoms are like carrying handguns, you feel responsible when you have them, but in the heat of the moment you probably arent going to use it and just go at them like animals. Ipso Facto and so therefore, I frequently finger bang mid tier Bain Executives at Save the Elephant parties without condoms on top of the sink hopefully with the bathroom attendant watching so that I can get a starburst.
And of course, a week later I skipped my period,  which is a usual occurrence considering I throw up everything I eat, and dig up period blood as it is the perfect shade of red for the sunset in my painting auctioned at Sotheby's for a pathetic 100k, financing my studio in West Harlem.
 I peed on the stick and it was positive. This was my 14th aborted fetus since the 8th grade and I name them all after Biblical Characters so that I don't go to Hell. My gyno told me that I would probably contract Aids if I continued this manic alcoholic slutty repulsive amusing behavior, which made me excited because I would be photographed more at Parties by Patty McMully if I was deathly ill. Everyone loves a sicko.
I decided to venture out to my apartment near West Harlem for a mini Aborsh when I saw a dear friend I used to do coke with at Duke. She was with her cousin, who had fake blonde highlights but a chanel bag from the 80s so I knew she came from Money and an anorexic mother. We took one look at each other and realized we both have the same tennis instructor from summer camp in the Hamptons and used the same Method for SAT tutoring. Needless to say we made reservations at Nello's and shes one of my new best friends.

Monogamy Oragami tsunami

Monogamy Like Boozeless Children's birthday parties and limosine liberals should be avoided:

the idea that ONE human being is capable of satisfying your ever-evolving needs of orgams, blow, and trips to the Cape is downright ludicras, like my friend the rapper. 
People live until 180, having the ability to fly anywhere on teterboro and fuck anyone they want who has a networth of 200k plus. Yet, for most people, daily life is a constant struggle to not fall asleep and curse at the doorman. With every  year, human beings are spending less time having new experiences and making actual discoveries in the real world, and more time sitting on their tight asses and staring at a screen, trying to keep up with an endless stream of useless information while collecting as many “likes” as possible in a pathetic to remain relevant and pseudo famous in a rapidly changing virtual reality. And FYI I have a lot of likes.  As a result, the body is becoming weaker  falling into a state of erotic atrophy and craving comfort and predictability over excitement and activity. That’s why most married people would rather play Candy Crush than go down on each other. Im bored. Fuck me.