Of Misses and Masks

I’m scared to push publish on this because maybe you will want to be my friend now. You can go on vacations with me and we will go shopping and order room service. When we go places I’ll drive because my tank is always full and when we go to eat I’ll try to pay because there is always more money. But I'm going to push publish because I won't want to be friends with you.

I’m sitting in a multi million dollar house I call my home wearing $200 boots, $100 jeans, and a $400 pea coat. Everything down to my underwear is expensive. This zebra bra was fifty bucks and I have one in every color. I use designer shampoo and my closet is so full of new clothes that the hangars are snapping. The custom made couch I'm on is worth thousands of dollars. Each of the nineteen pillows resting against it cost a ridiculous amount. She really likes pillows. She really loves this house.

And now you are judging me.

That’s okay.

Please, call me a spoiled brat.

Please, call me a rich bitch.

Because that is what I am.

You see me and you don't see how messed up my life is.
You see me and you want my life.
You see me and ALL you see is the mask The Misses has painted on my face.

The Misses says money shouldn't matter, but it does.
The Misses says every impression counts.
The Misses says I don't care enough.
The Misses says others think bad of me.

The Misses knows the mask she has carefully painted on my face is cracking.

Apparently money can't buy happiness,
But it can buy perfection.
Visual perfection, that is.
And that is what counts.

The Misses says so.