Business suits, five-star hotels in Milan, wine with lunch. High-class relations I use to reap in more money than I could possibly spend on myself and maybe a wealthy intellectual of a husband.
Or ratty clothes and microwaved food, nothing in my one-bedroom leaky flat but a computer, balled up wads of discarded inspiration thrown around, only to picked up again once I'm dead. Perhaps never picked up at all. A life of lonely, self-righteousness. Playing footsie with a world I despise.
Both are equally romanticized,