Rich girls love Kierkegaard. They also love ketamine, poetry, and being an empty vessel for g*d, but most of all, rich girls love telling me they’re not rich. They have always loved telling me this: cramped together in bathroom stalls, in bars they dragged me to, at poetry readings or in whatever air B&B/sublet situation they’re currently in. My entire twenties were dedicated to interacting with various different kinds of Rich Girls. I love my collection of wealthy frenemies, who, seeking me out for subconscious validation, continue to be my greatest cheerleaders and worst enemies, my muses and my subtweets. I like to think back on all the rich bitches I’ve known in my life, my complicated relationships with them: the draining and painful nature of friendships within class gaps.
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to RC to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.