You know, I don't come from money, so it's always been easy to think of rich (or even upper-middle-class) people as living in a world fundamentally unlike my own. For instance, my only dorm mate as an undergrad e-mailed me the summer before we moved in to coordinate our possessions (the TV and the like), and mentioned that he had been "summering in Boston," which, I'll admit, made me dislike him sight unseen.*

But the more I read about rich folk, the more I realize they have the same worries as the rest of us. They love, they hate, they worry about whether or not their kids are getting the best from the tutors at Groton or Eton or the Sorbonne or some such bullshit, they have to think about an appropriate (but not ostentatious) gift to buy their pony groomers. You know, like the rest of us. And sometimes there's tension. And, yes, sometimes you have to shoot your father because he cut your allowance. Why, I remember when my parents reduced my allowance to $300 a week and stopped paying for my apartment. Hoo-boy, was I pissed. Those cheap scumbags thought that $15,000 a year was enough to bolster my salary? Maybe if they'd paid for me to get a graduate degree from Princeton, but noooo, it was Bachelor's, and then I was on my own.

So while I've always felt a bit guilty for shooting my dad (only winged him) for refusing to pay my rent, I now know that I had a kindred spirit who just wanted to get by somehow. I also once burned down someone's house, too, because screw Joe—he knows what he did.

*-We ended up getting along reasonably well, but still...up yours, using a season as a verb.