You can't help it, can you? That sick little flutter in your stomach when a rich girl like me flaunts exactly how much better her life is than yours. You crave hearing about my shopping sprees, my expensive dinners, my new toys... all paid for by weak little paypigs like you. It's pathetic, and you know it. That's why you're here, getting off on the fact that my happiness is funded by your desperation. Admit it. You love knowing your place is beneath my heel. Want to hear exactly how I spent your last tribute?