As an antonym to reality
See the way she’s sitting? The overly casual draping of her hands across her legs? Does she inspire you to think about wealth and power and the class of the too wealthy and too powerful? Yeah, I know. Me too.
Here’s the problem, there is no such thing as luxury. If we’ve learned nothing else from the rise and perpetual, never-ending, fall and falling of all things Trumpian we have learned about perverse values, disgusting realities, and utter nonsense. You can’t buy luxury. You simply can’t.
We should have also learned by now, that once you’ve gold-plated anything, you’ve made it worthless: a toilet, a light switch cover, a baby carriage, a porno-actress-wife, worthless and useless as a bag of gold coins in the hand of a Pompei guy turned to ash by a pyroclastic cloud.
No matter how you sit or stand, lie around, or crawl naked across a low-lit room to a bearskin rug to try to fuck while making sure not to spill your champagne — luxury will escape you.
Go back to that pic up top: Look at her hands and tell me she feels safe and confident and immune from getting uninvited to the very best social gatherings.
Fuckin’ luxury, you know? Yeah.
