Start to only eat lunch in restaurants located in hotels and department stores. Order dishes called “The Fashion Plate” and overhear passive-aggressive conversations between a mother and a daughter.

Spend an obscene amount of money on bath products. A major indicator of class is not in the cars you drive or the house you own. It’s in the $60 bottle of organic cruelty-free lavender shampoo you keep lined on your bathtub. Economy-sized bottles of Dove, Tresemme or Garnier need to be thrown out immediately.

Have a lot of stress in your life. Your life is very stressful. Remember what your shrink told you? You’re a good person who just gives too much to people. You’re spread too thin. Allocate some “me” time everyday.

Discuss your summer plans in vague terms. Maybe you’ll go to your parents’ in Malibu and stay in the guest house. It’s two miles away from their property and you can really make it yours. You can even finally start work on your screenplay about rich kids (Oh my god, you knew these kids growing up. Their lives were so insane. Someone just needs to make a movie about them) and maybe even teach horseback riding in your spare time.

Spend a lot of money on magazines and coffee table books. Buy expensive candles at home décor stores and talk about updating the feng shui on your place to the sales person (You don’t know that the sales person hates you. You don’t know that they can only afford incense and iKea tables.) But talk to them like they understand, like they get it, like they live their life exactly like you do.

Seek out friends with similar incomes. You don’t want to eat alone at Barney’s Greengrass, do you? You can spot rich people fairly easily; it’s almost like a sixth sense. In New York, you can just go up to someone and ask them where they live. If they live in downtown Manhattan, you’re usually good to go.

Go to lunch with these rich friends and discuss the burdens of wealth, laugh about your alcoholic mother. Discuss your trips to rehab with a smirk. Treat your greatest failures like trophies. Ha. Ha. Ha. See that it’s just like following a script, like the one you plan to write. Check, please.

Go grocery shopping at places that charge $10 dollars for mustard. Buy exotic meats and cheeses and carefully place them in your fridge. Feel well-adjusted and healthy. Order delivery for dinner.

Lazily discuss your education. It’s all just so interesting. You went to Crossroads for high school. Do you even know what that means?

Listen to Kings of Leon and go see Radiohead at the summer festivals because Radiohead is awesome. Subscribe to Gwyneth Paltrow’s newsletter, GOOP, and maybe even Details magazine.

Date people who can afford you. Discuss marriage like it’s arranged, like there’s no other choice.

Major in Egyptology in college. Plan to become a “personality.” You have a lot of great things to say and people need to hear it.

Shop at all the usuals. Buy ripped flannel from Rag & Bone for $200. You want to look down-to –earth. You are down-to-earth, okay?

Fill your days with appointments. You’re seeing your waxer, Jen, (You love Jen) at 1:30, eyebrow threading at 2:30 and the pet psychic at 4:00. Oh my god, you’re ten minutes late to the pet psychic. You’re so sorry. You’re such a good person for being so sorry.

Most importantly, lose all self-awareness. People live like you do everywhere and they deserve it. Fail to understand life outside of this carefully constructed bubble. Remind yourself that it’s not for you to understand anyway. Don’t feel bad about anything ever. Check, please.

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