“And what costume shall the poor girl wear to all tomorrow’s parties?” Nico taunted me through my headphones. Tomorrow night I’m wearing the same dress I wore yesterday. All lamé matches, honey! I skipped the song, sipped my boxed wine and weighed my chance in the club line. Slim to none. Where I’m from, combat boots and band tees are enough to make you hip. In college, I moved to Milan and found myself surrounded by fancy jerks. I mean daughters of designers and sons of bitches! Poseurs, know what I mean? They’re the worst, but even worse, they didn't notice me. Don’t they know how cool I am in North Carolina? Tyra Banks always says, “do you wanna be on top?” I love her, but she asks dumb questions. I did reach the top, but only after countless nights of effort, embarrassment, blisters and crying in the bathtub to the backdrop of "Born to Die." Now that I’m on the other side, I've got a question for you. Guest of a Guest can show you the parties, but what do you do once you’re there?
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