dear superficial readers: there has been overwhelmingly negative feedback to my touching honesty about that which plagues my twenty-nothing soul. as such, we now return to our regularly scheduled bitchy, sardonic, and crafty program.


brian: what? are you george costanza?
me: worse. i'm jewish and latina.


i woke up last night in a cold sweat.

it was either the down comforter combined with the recent effects of global warming. or what woke me from my dream about the all-you-can-eat buffet in heaven was the fear that i have become -- or at least have come way too close to -- everything i despised about my high school, my sorority, and the gossipy mothers of the kids with whom i went to elementary school.

now i have long admitted that i know tiffanys the way venezuelans know plastic surgery and floridians know cuban sandwiches. but it was the purchase of my first (closely followed by my second) faux-juicy jumpsuit that i conjecture was my breaking point.

the only solace i can find in this horrid situation is that it isn't a real juicy jumpsuit with some slanderous word silk-screened with sequins studded across the ass. but it is velvet.

sigh.

it's not that i have anything against juicy or jumpsuits or jews in juicy jumpsuits; it's that i absolutely hate what they stand for.

i have zero tolerance for snobby-ness, trendy-ness, or pretentious-ness.

no patience for tight black pants, tight black sweatpants, or tight black leggings.

and absolutely no stomach for really skinny people.

(in fact, i discriminate against size zeros.)

so what finally put me at ease last night was allowing myself to believe that while i gave into all that i dislike in this world on the surface, i'm really only faking it underneath. and i'm all about faking it.

(i can give you a list of first-"hand" observers if you'd like confirmation.)

i fake-bake. i own only fake sunglasses and a fake prada bag. one part of my body is surgically fake. and honestly, i fake liking most people i meet too.

essentially, as i wade the waters between childhood and adultishhood, i -- like most of my student and young professional peers -- am stuck with champagne taste and beer money. i want the luxurious or shiny or soft or trendy objects, but sure as hell don't want to pay for them. or, more importantly, be associated with the stigmas attached to them.

it's kind of like having flip flops but decorating them with rhinestones. or like going to harvard but denying it vehemently while in other area codes. wait a minute...

i'm not sure if my down-to-earth standards have been compromised or if faking it is my undercover attempt to mock that which i'm not good enough to be a part. afterall, you have to fake it 'till you make it. right?

... it seems to me that life was much easier when i just faked orgasms.