your perfect views from the 36th floor of central tower building?
your rouge sweets courses, of the best strawberry in the world?
your private jewerly shop, where they can do almost no limits?
your Hermes?..
i am higlhy ironic, that self-made is actually a thing.
you can be smart, but bad upbringing keeps dragging you down.
vise versa, you can born rich, but still caught up in amphetamins.
you can have connections, but not a damn skill how to sell a shit.
i have seen many crossroads and many falls.
a lot of bloodshed, tears, despair, betrayal and abyss.
i deliberately do not white lasering my scars to remember.
i sometimes wonder, how it is to be born with a nice background.
in a family, that actually acknowledges you as a decent part of it.
it is not equal though, that all the chidlren, abused, become future hitmans.
it is not equal though, that if your father is a drug dealer, you would end the same.
nothing is destined and perfect match (at least it is not your cruise chanel) is a myth.
i did manage to sell myself at the highest price.
but the other inherited half? ah.
all the scars are truly owned.
nothing flawless,
when i look at a new Birkin bag i sometimes recall.
was it all me, who managed to climb a little higher?
was it him, who managed all my debts at the time?
then i stop thinking and continue eat my Jim Beam chocolate.
whiskey, hardcour nights and cheese fries i am not giving up.
nope.
no llores, babe.