Misora

2013

I’m moving back to Silicon Valley. This time I know exactly where I want to live, and it isn’t suburbia. I’m going to live at Santana Row. AKA: the “upper east side” of Utah. (Ok, I know that doesn’t make any sense, but it’s funny, right…? Just let me have this one.)

The first time I went to Santana Row a couple of years ago, I fell in love with it. “The Row” is just that. Two beautiful, self-contained blocks of high-end stores like Gucci, Tesla, Ted Baker; delicious, non-chain restaurants; glamorous clubs; beautiful-people bars; and apartments in, over, and next-to The Row. This place is me. Or at least the “me” I aspire to be: energetic, cosmopolitan, bustling, high-end, affluent, summer-in-Nantucket, “Real Wife of Sugar Daddy Whose Name Isn’t Important Because I’m Leaving Him in Six Months for Another One Anyway.”

Sound snooty? Pretentious?

God, I hope so.

Look, I know that sounds lame. I get it. But for once in my life, I want to feel like the 1%. I want to strut into Gucci and Ted Baker, look at clothes, try on shoes, and gush about handbags, without once looking at or asking the price. I want people to think I’m rich when I tell them I live at Santana Row. I want them to be impressed. I want them to be jealous. I don’t have the beauty, body, or brains, but, damn it, now I finally have the booty.

I know I’m pretending.

Nobody else does.

The only apartment complex I can afford there is called Misora. Who am I kidding? I definitely CANNOT afford Misora. But I want it. I covet it. I need it. That 700 square ft, $2300 a month, plus-$50-extra-per-dog-per-month, apartment will be mine.

Now I just need to come up with first and last month’s rent and a $2,000 non-refundable cleaning deposit and I’m in! Where am I going to get $6,600 by next Monday when I’m in San Jose at Misora, visiting my new apartment, signing the paperwork, and promising to love, cherish, and obey Santana Row?

Thank God for AmEx.

Holy shit. Do you feel that? It’s already happening. My transformation from average Utah citizen to “Real Wife of Sugar Daddy Whose Name Isn’t Important Because I’m Leaving Him in Six Months for Another One Anyway“ has begun.

I gotta go shopping.

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