Hate me, I shit money

To whom all those endless education and ageless pursuit of knowledge clearly didn't do you any good, your shallow head makes me sick.

Is it my Chanel No. 5 smell, my fabulous meni pedi that cost more than your monthly sallary, and the way my thousand dollar hairwax hold my fringe?

Is it my half million Vacheron wristwatch that caught you looking, which I sometimes interchange with my Patek and Rolex-es, or my occasional latest season Gucci, Fendi, and Manolo Blahniks handbags?

My tic toc tic tac echo off the corridor tells you it's Prada shoes I'm wearing? No, really, it's just a couple of Hermès and D & G. Also, my white coats are tailor made by Donna Karan and Versace.

Oh, you shouldn't have noticed these diamond crates I put on each finger. This one on my neck is about the price of one island, and 7 generation of your kind. I know.

Did you see my chauffeur opened up my limo door in the morning? Or the other day when I stepped off my gold plated Maybachs? For I park alot more Bentleys in the West Beverly you haven't seen.

Now, don't let my faithful well-trained bodyguards distract your attention. For I'd like to bitch-slap you out of all those imagination of me you created in your head.

Stop being so jealous, lowlies. All I do is take a bath every morning, make sure all these cheap clothes are cleaned, pressed, then walk down the line with a confident smile.