I wasn't born to be poor.

I was born to be a ravingly eccentric rich woman with handmadiens and such.

But alas, my father disowned my mother and I for a life of feeling up little boys, and spending the night at hotels in Paris with the Jolly Green Giant.

Ho, ho, ho, motherfucker.

I should take a trip to california, and visit him before he goes to jail. I want some reperations for my traumatic* childhood, damnit.

*please note that pamela newman's childhood was not at all traumatic, and is to be considered that of a normal child, minus the presance of a father... a rich, talented father who just so happened to be a pediphile.

Over the weekend, while spending time with my mother, who does the majority of her grociery shopping at Aldi's (A store similar to Save-a-lot, and if you don't get the gist of that, you aren't too bright). It apphuals me that my mother, the woman who gave me life (not that I asked, or anything, but I like this life thing okay these days) bargian hunts at Aldi's. It disugsts me that she 1- all but refuses to pay more than a dollar for a loaf of bread and 2- that she refuses to do so because she can't afford it.

What the fuck?

I was born to be rich. Really, I was. My dad is Michael Jackson, haven't you heard? I prefer quality over quanity, and revel in having other people do shit for me, simply because I have the cash. If I had a car, I'd never wash it myself. I'd pay someone else. I'd tip 'em well, mostly because I've busted my ass for some lazy rich bitches in my day. I would get massages twice a month, pay some other bitch to wash and style my hair weekly, and giggle with other rich bitches while having my nails painted.

I was not meant to be fucking poor.

I might be meant to work hard, that's okay. I hate this job, but I've just decided that I have to do it anyway. Earlier today, as I was silently bitching about how much my brain is being wasted here, I realized that I'm needed here, and as much as I fucking hate this boring ass job, I like being needed, and they'll give me raises.

So, I'll work here, do a good job and get a good reputation for doing my shit. I'll get raises, and (oh god) work my way to earning more than 35k a year.

I'm still going to go on auditions, and aspire for uber-richdom, but at this point, 35k is a much more realistic goal.

I'm confidant that I could be earning whatever is compirable to 70k by the time I'm 30 if I bust my ass in a carreer path. I'm an agressive, non-shit taking bitch, and I'm also easy to get along with (lmao, for the most part) so I'm sure I'll do well, corporately.

I want to own a car which wasn't produced a decade ago, and live in a neigborhood with more than 4 trees. Call them crazy goals...

I also want to be able to afford to get a massage every month, and have some talented young gay guy style my hair, and tell me how sexy I'd be with highlights, just so I can tell him, "No thanks, but your work is fabolous!"

I don't want to sweat when the bills come, or when I want to go somewhere far from my home, or if I want to do something special for my boyfriend. I don't want my mom to bargian shop at aldi's, and I want her kitchen and bathroom to look like normal people use them. I want to shop for furniture at Pottery Barn, and flip foul looks at the counterpeople when they give my credit card a quizzical expression, "Black woman with credit card... not denied?" Yeah jackass, it's because I rebuilt my credit when i was 23.

I don't want to live in south philly when I turn 24, and I don't want to be relying on septa for transportation next summer.

Again, these are much more attainable goals than my usual goals. Damnit, I'm being realistic.

love and adoration,

pam