Bickering, jealousy and ambition; the world of WAGs and Wannabes

I’m really out of my territory. I can read, ffs

“Babes,” She types quickly, each letter ripe with venom. “U aren’t his typ (sic). You’ll never get closer than that blue tick.”

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Never under estimate a jealous woman

I’ve never met this vaccuous bikini model, and I have to go through my inbox to work out which man she is talking about. It’s a random sports guy that she must have seen follow me. The whole situation is pretty absurd. And very, very funny. She honestly believes I have the same career ambitions as her: find a rich man, and grasp at every diamond and dollar from his famous fingers.

I don’t. “All yours, sugar plum,” I type back, honestly. Because, unlike her, I don’t base my worth on whether some sad act middle aged bloke with a blue tick wants to get in my knickers. Because, unlike her, I don’t need to pretend to enjoy the company of dull men to get anywhere. I don’t say that, because I’m a lady. She explodes at my indifference.

“You all say that,” she storms. “You are just a gold digger, you all are. You just want fame and famous men.” I wonder if she’s accidentally talking to her reflection. “He doesn’t like girls like you. I’m really close to him. He’ll never like you.”

I sit there gaping. Maybe I should tell her I’m very ambitious. That I’m doing my BSc and I am going to get a career or die trying. That I have something to offer aside from my body to men who see me as flesh to gawp over. That I would rather die than con men into thinking I was in love with them. That the idea of me pretending to be stupid and interested in trash culture would be an Academy Award feat. Instead of getting angry, I start laughing. Eventually, I’m practically crying over the keyboard.

You know my type? My type is smart. I love smart. I love witty, sharp, well informed guys with a chiselled knowledge of current affairs. I like men who speak three languages, read books for fun and don’t look bewildered when I make an Austen reference. Not money. Money can’t come up with a one liner at dinner. Money can’t buy you charisma, charm and interest. Oh, but he could buy you a pink ferrari? Yawn. Wait until your jewellery is garish and he leaves you for another blonde, sobbing into your soulless bank account.

If I want money, I’ll get money. I’ll work hard, I’ll make my own successes. I won’t rely on a man to provide for me because I don’t have to. It’s not 1950. I don’t have to parasite my success off our brothers. Beauty is a temporary commodity. When you aren’t lithe and your eyes don’t sparkle, you are as replacable as any other barbie. But when I am 60, I plan on having enough in my head to fend for myself, whether or not my beloved still wants to screw me, or his secretary.

Why can you have him? Because I deserve more. I deserve a man who really loves me. A man who doesn’t DM me because I’m pretty, but because he likes me. A man who still wants to kiss me when I’m tired at 6am and wearing my dressing gown. A man who wants my advice and opinions. I deserve a man that I respect. A man I can love whether or not he makes the rich list. A man who I want to come home to whether or not we live in Mayfair. A man who is still beautiful and wonderful to me when he has the flu and a huge student debt.

Be penniless, be broke, be terrible at football and be only famous in Watford.

Because this girl doesn’t view fake love as a career.

All yours, sugar plum.

Written by

24 year old with an awful lot to say about everything. Opinions entirely my own. Usually.

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