Life : A Tragedy

If my life must be a tragedy, I want it to be nothing less than a glamorous tragedy.
I want to live in a dingy, cheap skyrise apartment in the heart of NYC; dark and dismal, tiny and scantily furnished with a hint of youthful modernity.
Where no one comes to visit, there are never any messages on the answering machine, and only one side of the bed is ever slept on; the fridge is always empty, but the liquor cabinet is always full.
I want to push my way through the crowds as I walk to work in my upscale pantsuit and heels; or run through the rain, a beautiful disaster.
I want to sip my Starbucks coffee as I ferverously type away in my very own cubicle, with my very own little red stapler.
I want to be idolized and envied from afar; I want to be stunning and gorgeous and perfect.
I want to be the girl that everyone is in love with, but no one really knows.
And I want to come home to my pathetic solitude, drink myself into oblivion, slit my wrists to suicidal lyrics, and cry myself to sleep every night.
I want to be the girl that visibly has it all.
But is so desperately lost underneath it all.
(because it’s so much more glamorous to be a tragedy if you have a perfect lie to hide behind than if you’re a mere tragedy and nothing more)