it-is's Diaryland Diary

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poor little rich girl

Order your life from a catalogue like that designer shirt flung carelessly across your four-poster bed and laugh melodically on the phone with your chiseled boytoy of the week. Your acrylic nails are pink today and you've tried the latest blush technique, you're glowing 'cause of yesterday's facial and 'cause of that brand-new cream you shipped in from Europe on a whim.

Your computer sits in a corner, logged on and monitor humming and you tap tap tap on the keys to your boys across the world, your girls down the street and your vacation one-week lovers. Hearts passed all around with I-love-yous tagged on like an afterthought as you waste your time on sentences about nothing worth saying.

Bury yourself inside of this cocoon and always feel safe. You can hide behind your lovers that you hardly remember fucking, hide behind your acrylic nails that won't break no matter how hard you hit that wall.

Oh, don't cry. You're smudging your mascara, you're tangling your hair, you're wearing away your red red lipstick. Oh, don't cry, don't cry cry cry.

You poor little rich girl, all alone in your walk-in closet with your life hidden away behind skirts and dresses and the latest summer styles. You've got your boytoy to call, your nails to refill, your trainer to visit (you fucked him too, didn't you?), your mother to please and your reputation to uphold and it's just too much for you, isn't it?

Oh, are you crying now? Are you curled up in your misery like it's a fucking womb so you don't have to face it all? You don't know who to call, 'cause you've fucked all the boys and fucked over all the girls, there's no one left who actually gives a shit about you so just pretend you can be all you need.

It will all stay perfect, it will all be so perfect, if you hide the truths and let the lies shine through and become oblivious to everything around you. Nobody wants to hear your problems, anyway.

5:18 p.m. - 2003-05-29

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