When you are wealthy you can

Act like a cunt to your doorman
Spend your trustfund on xanax and diet coke
Skip work on days when you feel like going to therapy in the middle of the day
Get a note out of everything
Speak with a British accent and use British spellings
Have an opinion on how other people's children are raised
Give blowjobs and cut yourself and still be considered well bred from a good family
Use swear words on television
Have a bakers dozen DUI's and weapons violations
Have a passport photo with a doo rag
Invent diseases
Poop in public
Be an alcoholic if you can describe your wine in more than five adjectives
Steal from Bergdorf Goodman
Sit on the awning of Chanel on Rodeo Drive and do your Homework

White Girl Black Boy - Black and White Cookie - Black Card White Powder

I took my first black lover in the 6th grade. I went to Chapin and was hungry for dick. I thought I was the next Tatum O'Neal with a more sophisticated upbringing and a better haircut. I wanted to have an oscar at a younger age and insisted that I take acting classes in Harlem in a dangerous neighborhood. I figured I would be out of my comfort zone and exposed to deeper truths. He was in 8th grade and wore leather jackets and spoke French. He wanted to be an actor and ambassador like Sidney Poitier. I was amused by his intelligence and didnt seem to let the color of his skin or his non post code enviable residence to get in the way of pursuing his dreams. He was JeanValJean in our production of Les Miserables and I was Eponine, though my father paid the director for the role since my voice was at best Britney Spears Hit me Baby One More Time sans autotune and at worst the sound of alligators being pummelled to their death.
When I asked him if he wanted to go to second base during intermission, he declined saying it want the right time. I didnt know what he meant by that but looking back of course he wasnt that in to me and he could see my manic bulimic alcoholic neurotic white privileged elitist existence a mile away and beyond the barricade.

I come from a long line of Reckless and Unsentimental People

My mother was a B list model from Germany. My father was an American Playwright who lived in a studio on the Upper West Side above Citarella's. He would sit outside Steps and try to fuck the ballerinas. Two weeks after he met my mother after she emerged from Jazz class; I was conceived. My father was working on a play about the Beatles, and my mother was working on trying to sound smart. It is without question that they were reckless and unsentimental, like the Clintons or the Hitlers, or the underground Cosby's.  It was 1986 and one could still be reckless and run for president without worrying it would be on the front page of people's computers. The coke made us high and the economy was higher if that makes sense.
Alas, I realized when I grew up, I went to Yale and studied psychology and accused the T.A of rape because I didnt attend any of the lectures and didnt want to fail. They believed me because my argument included such peculiar detailed grotesque anecdotes that the Dean thought better not to question it. I was unsentimental too, but also self-aware which made my demise worse. I wore my hair in a sleek bob and had it trimmed thrice monthly at Elizabeth Arden Salon to keep the razor sharp edges. I spent most of my days working on my serve trying to score coke and trying to keep my hardcore slut reputation at bay. I was a highly sexual creature with a borderline addiction to waspy jizz until I met Ben Steinberg. He was a classic nerdy Jew replete with an obsession with his mother, frugality and fear of shellfish. I was disgusted as I was one of the most anti-semitic people I knew. He was enthralled by my take no bullshit disposition and developed a stalker like fascination with me. He wrote me poems in pen, made grand gestures of love announcements in the school cafeteria. I went on a date with him when he promised he could help me hack into Bank of America's vault in New Haven and steal some cash out of my mother's account. He made good on his promise only to have the FBI show up at his dorm room 10 hours later. It was nice knowing him. Like I said, reckless and unsentimental.

The night is Young and So is My StepMum

Alas, besides my crystal healer, my gay trainer, and my sister there is no one I would slit my wrists for other than my newest StepMum. I actually introduced her to my father in 2010, we met in the Plastic Surgeon's waiting room both pretending we weren't in for our routine lip fillers and leech suckers of the fat on the bottom of the tush.
I noticed she was reading a copy of the Economist in French but she was reading it upside down, a clear indication that she cared what people in the waiting room thought, but not enough to know how to properly fake read the Economist.
Are you Single I asked her? Why do you ask she said? I just think you might like to meet my Father, a man of many talents, interests, but you must like Martinis and Sailing and hate Jews.
Why don't you to my home she said? I believe we are free at 8 on Saturday. Ever since My mother tragically past in a helicopter crashing off of the coast of Juan-Les-Pins, I have taken it upon myself to be his personal assistant- matchmaker as well as manage my own social climbing career. She invited us to her home where she had a live in slave who offers you a Pellegrino and essentially massages your clit and calls you madame.
After the first date, I booked them a room in the St. Regis and called my Korean at VanCleef to melt one of my bullets in the vault into an engagement ring for Ms. Cornelia VonChapstick, my new mummy.

Hostess with the Mostest Asbergers

Alas many a time on this blogular platform, I have indulged on ways in which one fails at being a complete and total horror of a guest; re being Asian, re not supplying drugs or fireworks, re hating my dogs or re not being amused when I roofie you at breakfast. But what quantifies as being a good host I find it vulgar to host people at your summer home. The requirements of being a good host is the antithesis of my core values of selfishness, narcissism, and complete lack of interest in other's needs.  Why on earth would I cater to other people’s need’s when I can barely manage the complexities of my own needs?

 I am a terrible host on the basis that my idea of a good evening post dinner is solo Xanax and porn with my baccarat vibrator and then post tripping on ambien online shopping at shopbop and undergroundblackmarket.com. 

I am not interested in catering to your basic bitch desires of trying to get fucked by a Saudi in the club in the hopes that you develop a relationship that renders you an invitation to his Christmas party in Beverly Hills or Gsstaad. Nor am I interested in having a glass of wine with you in my jacuzzi post dinner and listen to you pour you heart out over your failed marriage solely because it has nothing to do with me and I told you that your marriage was going to fail on your third date when he refused to invest in my pyramid-esque business venture and suffered from a light erectile dysfunction and a lost passport.  

Par examplay, there is nothing more frusturating than having to share my alcohol that I purchased for myself with my Father’s hard earned money. I cannot properly exercise in my gymnasium without fearing that my guest will hurl themselves off of the treadmill or pick up a weight so heavy to impress me that they fall over rendering themselves incapable of giving me a finger bang in the hot-tub later. Coordination and Mobilization is the key to success of weekend houseguests, skills that I have not mastered either in my personal or pseudo professional life. I wake up at 2 o clock in the afternoon, have no skills at driving, tennis sobriety, or a peppy outlook on the mocking sunny day ahead. and when people ask where to go to breakfast I direct the local liquor store. 

See you at the St. Regis. 

Reasons why I would both have anal sex with and Vote for Donald Trump:

As a glorified 20 something bulimic alcoholic republican with a dwindling trustfund and no meaningful life skills sauteed in a  kind disposition and no time for cellulite and people who are offended by identity theft, I fully respect Donald Trump as a business owner, a World Leader of God's Green Earth, and truthfully one of my dearest friends. 
Ivanka and I went to University together and I couldn't get into her social scene because I was a manic mess and could not wipe enough enough cocaine off my nose. This incident resulted in us in a photo that made it into Patty McMullan's sunday Style, the drugs could be argued as the shadow of an untrimmed nose hair - but it threatened Ivanka's so called drug free image and dismissed me with a brisk farewell email. She then further exnayed me from her scene  when I gave a grade A blowjob to her now husband Jared Kushner, who between you and I has a small penis but excellent recommendations in how to manage my private equity portfolio. 
Donald and I remained quite close despite his daughter and mine's falling out and I fully support his run because let's face it, I have no idea what immigrant means, I like his hair, and I am tired of having a president who has never been in the military.  Hashtag Valley Forge. 

September Goals

Organize a vegans who like Mozart and Ponzi Schemes meet-up

Deepthroat my husband without painkillers

Speak with an inflected British Accent

Bring my Dog to Bergdorf's

Invest in a start-up Spa at Auschwitz for weight-loss and holistic rejuvenation

Orchestrate a three-way with Megyn Kelly and my psychiatrist

Subsist on a weekly cleanse of jizz starbursts and wethers butterscotch

Read the Wall street Journal nude