Socialite

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In my next life I want to come back as a pretty, rich white girl named Kitty Von Bitchington.

I want to have money thrown at me from the time I’m little up until my parents throw me a huge Sweet Sixteen at Pacha in Ibiza where me and all of my hot and sexy girlfriends can get rich European dudes to buy us shots all night long. We’ll dance on tables for hours in our tight, short titty dresses then spend the end of the night earling all over ourselves in the Limo back to our posh hotels.

And then, as I get older, I want to recreate this night everyday for the next twenty years until I’m a used up, bitter, divorced mother of two strung out on cocaine and trying hard for the Paparazzi to love me like they did when I was still young and hot. I’ll get into Twitter wars with other Ex-Famewhores and have scandalous dalliances with married men, all the while giving the Paps my middle finger in each picture they take when all I really want to do is run up to them, slip them a fifty dollar bill and whisper ‘THANK YOU!!!’  because they’re keeping me relevant.

And so goes the life of a “Socialite

What, pray tell, exactly is the purpose of being a socialite in this day and age?

When I think of that word I’m taken to a time and place when very glamorous ladies would go from party to party, flirt with men, drink champagne with their lady friends and get a nice buzz before going back home to prepare for another party the next day.

Now when I think of the word socialite I picture a wild drunk chick with fake tits getting plastered on Top Shelf liquor and taking frequent trips to the ladies room to share a straw with her Good Time gal pals. And at the end of the night she doesn’t go home alone.

Shit, sometimes she doesn’t even go home. She goes to a photo shoot. Or to a movie set. Or to a high paying job in the Entertainment world. AND THEN, she goes to another party.

Lucky Bitch.

Perhaps I speak out of jealousy because most of these women (and some men) are famous for nothing and rich beyond my wildest dreams. They can buy whatever they want, hobnob with famous people of note and party until the wee hours of the morning without having to deal with hangovers, train schedules, bills or responsibilities.

So I am absolutely speaking out of jealousy because who the hell wouldn’t want to live like that?

Still, as I stated earlier, the term “Socialite” no longer carries a great deal of class and sophistication anymore. If for any other reason it’s a default word to describe lazy trust fund babies, jaded narcissists and disease ridden cesspools of immorality.

A “socialite” is basically someone who gets paid to party.

Oh my God why can’t I be one of them?!

I’ve been partying for free for too long. I don’t even want to go to all the haughty parties. You can pay me to go to hood bars just to liven shit up. Pay me to go to Karaoke bars to sing one of the classics then I’ll gladly collect my check, my hot wings to go and get the hell up outta there.

The downside, of course, is that I would have to become a sloppy, drunken mess at the end of the night. My need for attention would far outweigh my need for intelligence. My entitlement meter would have to rise from 0 to 60 as soon as I get out of the car. I would have to have endless romances with unfaithful men who would probably leave me to fuck a brick if you drilled a large enough hole into it. All of my friends would be two-faced back biters that would leave me high and dry during Life’s many storms (run ins with the law, court cases, TMZ gossip, running out of coke, that sort of thing)

On second thought I don’t think I could ever be about that life.

Let me leave the Socialite game to the professionals.

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