Home Pop Culture Should a writer just give up and become a socialite instead?

Should a writer just give up and become a socialite instead?

'Just close your eyes Scallywag and think of all those flashbulbs making out with you!'

Scallywag in his element.

For a while lately I have been complaining about my resilient state of glamorous poverty (that’s right kids being a writer is best reserved for those of you with trust funds like my esteemed friend editor and socialite at large Peter Davis, did I say that Peter, oops…don’t correct me if I am wrong though and a hearty appetite for poverty and a backlog of Christian Dior suits 7 seasons old) and how grumpy it’s been making me, especially in lieu of the fact that my own parents (who are kind enough occasionally to pay my landlord if I groan enough ) have been balking at shelling out all the incidental expenses that keep popping up (if only I had GoG’s Rachelle Hruska’s fortune of finding myself a rich armrest so I could become their concubine, and yes kids I pay attention to her daily list everyday and so should you!) and despite the good fortune of family and part time benefactors (if only you became full time my darlings I would rush by and bake you fat free powder puffs all day long) life has increasingly become a miserable tenuous experience for me.

Then again I am a silly twit who still believe(s) in idealistic notions of being an artist true to my vision even if it means having to one day back down and beg Rupert Murdoch or is it Emily Smith ( I miss your gems Richard Johnson) to let me write about gang rape and other interesting things that I keep coming across on Page stinks six (which reminds me Emily where should I send my resume?)

'Oh Scallywag, I know you can become a socialite if you just put your mind to it.'