you tell me
Since Daddy took away the Platinum card, New York has just become intolerable. I was discussing the matter yesterday with some of my celeb friends in Bungalow 8. I was forced to carry the same Marc J. clutch as last time, simply because I didn't have anything else to go with my outfit and of course, I'm trying to economise. This involves curbing my spending habit considerably, so that now I never order the kobi steak when we go out, just the filet mignon. Not that I pay anyway, but I'm all for making a conscious political statement that really says something, you know? I even went into a supermarket the other day, and let me tell you, it was taxing, but I survived.
Bungalow 8 was tragic. Full of eurotrash and wannabes. Being surrounded by so many losers hardly helped assuage my concerns over my finances. The money situation is really disturbing me. It's so crass to talk of one's personal economic situation, but here I am, compelled to. I woke up this morning and wandered through my Chelsea apartment, and I couldn't help but be racked with painful sobs at the disturbing revelation that I'm going to have to cancel the interior designers. Thankfully Daddy forgot about the Gold card, and there's still the trust fund, so I've at least managed to get three of the bedrooms done, although Bed, Bath & Beyond really isn't what one would like to bring friends home to.
Despite my reader's advice, I've decided not to seek work, because really, why should one? I've dabbled into the dark and dirty side of Manhattan because I'm a fantastic journalist and that's what I do, but I'd prefer it if you all clicked on the link in the sidebar and sent me money. As Daddy has cut the monthly budget significantly, you can't expect me to maintain the personal trainer, private chef, tantric yoga instructor and maid, never mind the stylist, all on my own. Things got so desperate yesterday that I nearly returned a new pair of Jimmy Choos, and I walked past Bergdorf's without looking in once.
Life is really hard, and you all just don't understand.
Bungalow 8 was tragic. Full of eurotrash and wannabes. Being surrounded by so many losers hardly helped assuage my concerns over my finances. The money situation is really disturbing me. It's so crass to talk of one's personal economic situation, but here I am, compelled to. I woke up this morning and wandered through my Chelsea apartment, and I couldn't help but be racked with painful sobs at the disturbing revelation that I'm going to have to cancel the interior designers. Thankfully Daddy forgot about the Gold card, and there's still the trust fund, so I've at least managed to get three of the bedrooms done, although Bed, Bath & Beyond really isn't what one would like to bring friends home to.
Despite my reader's advice, I've decided not to seek work, because really, why should one? I've dabbled into the dark and dirty side of Manhattan because I'm a fantastic journalist and that's what I do, but I'd prefer it if you all clicked on the link in the sidebar and sent me money. As Daddy has cut the monthly budget significantly, you can't expect me to maintain the personal trainer, private chef, tantric yoga instructor and maid, never mind the stylist, all on my own. Things got so desperate yesterday that I nearly returned a new pair of Jimmy Choos, and I walked past Bergdorf's without looking in once.
Life is really hard, and you all just don't understand.
MIMI IN NY | 9:17 PM |
