It’s morning.

See, this whole thing started when Lacey inherited part of her inheritance from her father. And even though it was a meager inheritance relatively speaking it made enormous waves.

Why is an interesting question.

Possibly because the whole trajectory of Lacey’s life as sold to her Millennial peers was a lie. Possibly because they’ve been brainwashed into believing things that have only harmed them their whole lives. Possibly because a lot of their sanity has rested on her being inferior to them somehow or being a permanent victim. Not a real victim of their evil and generational sociopathy, but a victim of some unseen, fairly nebulous, common evil.

*The Illuminati tries to suffocate her or cause a heart attack*

And that’s the thing. This post is bursting a lot of narcissistic bubbles. …And really it’s pathetic to the point of tragedy that her generation is so weak. So gullible.

Somehow Lacey’s family’s wealth was supposed to be purely esoteric and intellectual and Scandinavian and dull and nice and sweet and non-threatening. …Basically, it wasn’t supposed to be real. …Well, real…but in a Mr. Rogers way. One of the secretly greatest families that minds their own business and yet gets shit on by those more “sophisticated” or “glamorous” or “fascinating” or, in possible truth, pushy and aggressive.

She was, even though called prissy by peers in childhood, a “farm girl.” The idea of poor James Gatz or some Scandinavian dolt who barely could do simple math was egotistically comforting to F. Scott Fitzgerald too?

The irony of course was and is that F. Scott Fitzgerald was never the co-editor-in-chief of a very widely read newspaper consistently for decades. He never went to Norway and gave lectures to university students due to intellectual grandeur. He didn’t have ties to celebrated silversmiths of a European country. He didn’t have well-respected professors in his family in the 1940’s? His descendants don’t have billions of Dollars in oil for fun. …And most scathingly, when her Great Granduncle (in reality) Simon Johnson published his most significant novel in 1916…Scott wasn’t a published author at all. And, of course, while Scott may have written and published the same number of novels or albeit one or two less than Simon Johnson, Scott was never knighted by a European King of old. Or Queen.

So…what was it that Scott meant when he said that the Scandinavians weren’t members of “society” yet? The thing is…there were actually glamorous Swedes with impressive mansions in Minnesota, if I’m not mistaken. There had been for decades. Some of them might have even been intellectually well regarded.

So…was his issue with Norway? Norway only became its own country separate from Sweden in 1814? And to F. Scott Fitzgerald 1814 wasn’t 1600? Norway was still suspect? Never mind that he was Irish? And of course, parts of Ireland are still under British rule to this day in 2023.

“Did Zelda feel it best to let Northern Ireland be babysat by the British based on her experience of being married to you?” a Seay asks Scott. “She has say over such things. Right?“

The Bat Crew, as part of the They, which consists of Batgirl III, and Mr. & Mrs. Blue pauses to reflect.

Or…did Scott mean something sad? Was he focused on a small subgroup of people he felt were the elite? …And really, you can’t blame him. He was very objective. Brilliant! …And by missing the larger context in which his elite held power, the trends of white immigration vs non-white, and etc. he missed reality? He missed it to the peril of those white and non-white white-assimilating in the US who care who aren’t truly in the Old Money Elite.

A stuffy Jewish girl who likely has no old money like Harold Loeb feels suddenly far less self-important even while her credentials seemed impressive before. “We’re still wealthy though. And even generationally wealthy. But no, I’m not Old Money really.” she says to herself calmly, rationally.

“You know what?!” rages The Loudest Perfume Hater still determined to make Lacey Is Poor 2023 happen.

What will Wobbly and Joe Jr. do with all the bumper stickers reading Lacey Lies? What will The Loudest Perfume Hater do with her balloons and glitter for the ceiling? The hate campaign buttons reading I Killed Her? Or the others that say, Average Joe, Kennedy’s Kill, Ugly Girls Go To Hell, I’m Hot She’s Not, Lacey Eats Poop, Joe Is Cooler Than Even Me, We Rule You Drool, I’m Not Pretentious, She’s Not Rich and Why Bother Arguing With Stupid? The posters that say, “Tall is Superior In Every Way,” “I’m A Winner, Thank Jesus,” “Poor Black People Can Be Shot,” “Ask Me If I’m Pretentious, I Dare You,” “The Truth Which Is Does Not Therein Need To Ever Be Explained At All Because It Is,” “I Pretend To Be An Aristocrat And So Can You,” “I’m Pretty & Cool & Fun & Hot & Nice & Sweet & Gentle & Swedish & Petite & Cool,” and “He Chose Me Not You.”

“Stop making fun of me.” The Loudest Perfume Hater says violently even as she still tries to maintain a perception of victimhood. “I’m not that funny.”

“You’re an adult who might molest cats.” says Lacey. “And then has the psychopathic gall to post the footage of it on Instagram to get likes and compliments from male dipshits.”

The They in the Illuminati feel offended. “We condone sexual animal torture as a healthy, foundational part of the queer + community.” the They say. “We also condone water torture and the 9/11 attacks.” The They think. “The airplanes were in love with the Twin Towers.” They shrug. “We’re real high society.” The They think. “See…after making my $40 million fortune and summering in the Hamptons…I’ve come to realize what networking with the Elite is. …And Sissy McIntosh and I are close. We are. Ask her!!” He pauses. “But it’s not about who your friends are or how deranged and poor your grandparents and parents were or are. Because we had stuff. All the latest stuff. My mother owned a Louis Vuitton in 1972.” He thinks. “No, 1987.” He coughs. “The point is, I’m TRUE Old-Money elite. And I think given my psychic’s readings of my Aetna-soul that I’m a reincarnated Pope.” He looks very serious. “And…I’d rather think of 9/11 as a beautiful, ironic commentary on Madness and passion in the 20th Century than something backward, Christian and vile.”

*The Illuminati feels narcissistically threatened and attacks Lacey by threatening to abuse kids or trying to use their abuse to torture her psychologically.*

“So…why do you think the planes were in love or lust with the Twin Towers?” Michael Rockefeller asks this man.

“What trailer park did you come from walking in with this ugly piece of shit?” he asks Mike, pointing to Lacey.

“Trailer park?” asks Michael, seriously.

“Yeah! It’s just…her clothes fit too well and her boobs aren’t big enough and her hair looks pretty. Or is it that she doesn’t look dumb or ugly enough?” he says self-righteously. He’s being serious. He begins to chew with his mouth open as other around him vomit on cue into the Laura McAshley bags.

“I’m trying for a new vomit routine in a year. My Akakase ring leader says it’s not my time yet.” he says seriously.

“Can you be merciful and explain something?” asks Lacey.

He looks possibly human for a second. Then he looks irritated. Then he looks human again. Then he looks irritated. …He looks anxious as he can’t pick a mood to present to his exhausting audience.

Lacey feels empathy for him, “Why do you think the planes, who according to current French Cinema?, were in love with The Towers…fell in love?”

“I don’t know! Say, in your impoverished family from the hills of Minnesota mining towns…did people ever fall in love and get married in the old traditional way? Maybe you can tell me why pieces of shit like you and The Twin Towers would bother to imagine falling in love.” he responds with a bizarre air of the spiritual authority of the Holy Roman Catholic Church.

“Does Sissy ever fall in love? Or are you more fascinated by my impoverished family?” Lacey asks him.

“Sissy is a Norwegian-American Aristocrat.” he says. “Her family owns the Basken Gold Basket in Iowa.”

“Oh, my. What does that mean about her ability to fall in love?” asks Lacey.

“She doesn’t fall in love. She questions the hearing of the birds.” he says supremely.

“I see. And why did the planes fall in love with The Twin Towers then?” asks Lacey.

“Because the planes are planes?” he asks.

Bach: Violin Concertos 1&2 by Bach and plays.

“Do you listen to the music?” asks Lacey.

“This crap? It’s so pretentious.” *He laughs thinking he’s genuinely relating her in what believes is her true lowliness* “But I tolerate it. It reminds me of when I was trying to be rich and fancy at my early days at Harvard.” he looks at her. “Did you go to a shithole for college if you went at all? Harvard is a good school still, you know.”

“Where is Harvard?” asks Lacey.

“In Boston. Well, near Boston.” he smiles. “You’ve not seen much of the US?”

“No. I’ve been living in a cave my whole life.” says Lacey. “Today is my first day out. How am I doing?”

He looks at her. “How are you able to see?”

“A kind doctor at Harvard, actually gave me new eyes. They’re made from alien materials.” Lacey says.

“Oh! This is a joke?” he says to her fuming.

“No. I’m actually a Martian.” says Lacey.

He looks nervous. He believes her.

“See, on Mars Bach is our rap music.” she says.

He looks fascinated. “But you grew-up in a cave?!”

“No! It’s a joke.” she says. She giggles.

He looks confused.

“Martian’s don’t have buildings that fall in love with planes. It’s a foreign concept to me. …Really though, I’m just trying to be friends with Sissy. Aren’t we all?” asks Lacey.

“I’m not sure why you’d think Sissy is even here!” he says self-righteously.

“Oh! She’s living in the suburbs regularly fucking black men?” asks Lacey.

He looks at her seriously. “You don’t even know.”

“Know what? Life outside my cave?” asks Lacey.

Michael Rockefeller clears his throat. “Well, I went to Harvard.”

The man looks at him, askance. “Your father bought Harvard.” *He scoffs*

“They are the descendants of slave traders in East Africa in the 1700’s.” says Lacey. “Is that what you’re referring to?”

“No! Oh dear, oh dear!” he says mockingly of her. “You and your stuffy shit.” He thinks. “We I was Bill Gates at Harvard I wrote novels for fun about people like you. But these days you’re obsolete.”

“You were Bill Gates?” asks Lacey.

He looks morally offended. He takes a deep breath. “You know not what you do.” Then he cries. “I was. Yes. I was Bill Gates. I double-trouble reincarnated.”

“Do go on!!” says Michael.

He nods his head, “I was Bill Gates in a walk on reincarnation for two months.” He laughs. “My therapist and I call it a double-trouble reincarnation because I’m very morally offended by God that I had to assist Bill Gates. He’s into vaccines.” He steadies himself. “I’m not opposed to vaccines for elephants. But for others it’s immoral.”

“Like elephants at zoos?” Michael asks him.

“On my last acid trip I met an elephant named Hortense. He shared the great wisdom of the ages with me from the books of the Naratrobi Scholars.” He looks serious. “No, I ascended.” He thinks. “I ate the flesh of birds.”

“Did you get to visit my family in Minnesota?” she asks.

He looks disdainful and embarrassed for her.

“No, dear I did not!” he says condescendingly.

“Why ever not?” asks Michael.

The man laughs seriously.

“Daaaahhlinng…why everest not?” asks Lacey. “Whilst thou explain?”

“Say!! Maybe you really did go to Harvard!” he says in a friendly tone.

“Well, we best say toodalou to you!” Then *Lacey laughs a Bette Davis laugh.* 

“Oh! Sissy will be madly perplexed!” he says.

And at that Lacey and Michael run away as fast as they can.