Hi there. I’m sorry—you must not know about me. While this is your house and I am lounging in your bedroom with the shy, giggling French teenagers I invited without your permission, you have no business asking me to leave, for I am the owner of exactly two Anthropologie sweaters. Why, madam, are you treating me as though I own exactly none?

I don’t need to earn your respect. Respect is woven into the $265 fabric of the cashmere/angora/polyester knit pullover I’m wearing, as well as every stitch of the pale pink cardigan with confetti pom-poms on the shoulder hanging in my closet. Respect, my dear, is not something one demands; it’s something one buys. And I bought it at the nicer mall.

And, before you ask: No; it was not on the clearance rack. Both of my two (2) Anthro sweaters were hanging on mannequins at the front of the store.

Feel like standing up straight yet?

Yes, sure, I’m wrapped up in your top sheet with three possibly underage Parisians whom I met just now at the green grocer. And yes, you and I were only recently acquainted through Steve, your brand-new next-door neighbor. I’m just letting you know that there is a natural hierarchy to human society, and it’s more pleasant for everyone when that order is respected.

When I walk into a room, your body should tense up the way it would in the presence of a celebrity or a member of the royal family. I didn’t write the rules; I just wrote my signature on a receipt for $758 for two sweaters. I purchased a few pieces of clothing that cost roughly the same as a month’s rent in most major cities, which elevates above the rest—even above Jacques, Gita, and Mimi here. Désolés, mes petites.

If you know what’s good for you, you will submit to my splendor. You are but a peasant in my quirky kingdom. Bow to your bohemian queen.

Oh, I’m sorry. You don’t know what Anthropologie is? Anthropologie is “anthropology” spelled whimsically, but it’s also more than that. It’s a way of life. Each garment is a study in human behavior. What can we learn about the vibrant culture of an Angolan tribe? I for one learned that I love the $188 gray tunic they made. I wear it once a year on my birthday.

Mimi, no more champagne for you! My apologies—Mimi spills because she shakes. She is cold all the time. Mimi, mon cherie. T’es trop bobo!

No, madam, I will NOT leave your bed!

“Did you need to buy those two overpriced sweaters?” people ask me. Fools. These aren’t sweaters; they are works of art. They’re an investment. When I die, I don’t want to leave my children something gauche like money. No. I’ll be passing down two gorgeous, moth-protected pieces from the Fall 2012 collection, as well as a significant amount of credit card debt. So get on my good side now if you want a piece of that action.

Maybe you’re thinking, What if we treated all women as though they owned two Anthropologie sweaters? That’s a cute idea—one only a pauper with a carefree, happy, simple life would have. If that were the case, what would we give the women who already meet that criteria? More respect? There’s just not enough to go around.

Now, please, bring me a small towel. Jacques spit up on your pillow.