money talks, i translate.

that's the first impression she picked up the moment she saw you. the kind who chews godiva in tuesdays. marvis teeth. tobacco vanille. and mister marvelous. the kind who could pull an albert camus. that kind of person. a heliotrope-holding, literacy and psychology graduate and god-knows-more— you quintessential, amalgamation monstrosity walking centurion card.

and then there's this hard-to-get game you kept on playing with minimum effort that got her twitching. perceptive, are you? you're just so good at trapping and tripping people in situations and opportunities they waltz themselves into with effort, and it was all too easy for you. maybe it's intentional, you just don't care about blood, sweat, and tears. or maybe you're just born difficult who watches people crawl and bawl and call them not enough and selfish.

but, of course, she's there. she's gonna be there and imbibe the opportunity like a glass of pink moscato until the bottle is bone dry. like why be a coward if she could be brilliant and much more fantastic than she already is? it's 50% fashion, 80% skills, and 70% fraud— 200%.

that's right. she's gonna be twice the bad famous you'll ever be, and she's gonna make sure she will.