Displaced

I went to college with a girl who thought she was the epitome of cool. Her qualifications were a hefty drug habit, heavy red-ish hair cut in a severe pageboy, a familiarity with Los Angeles clubs, large breasts, badly divorced parents, a serious cigarette habit, very red lipstick and very short skirts worn with cowboy boots.

She was the cheerleader of the fucked up set. By “cheerleader” I don’t mean inclusive enthusiasm, I mean exclusive elitism.

I ran across her on Linked In the other day as I was looking up a mutual pal. Her profile was invitation only and I laughed. She is the anti-Web 2.0. Her standing always was based on controlling the door, on other people wanting to get in because the door was closed. That’s so ’90’s. Good luck with that in the new economy. Or in adulthood. Enjoy your seclusion. I’m betting when you check the door, the line by the velvet rope won’t be there anymore.