Anyway. I feel a little weird being around all these quasi – famous and ultra rich young hipsters. I can easily pass for one of them, but deep down I’m nothing but a simple farm girl. Which makes the prospect of dating a pseudo – socialite tricky. I automatically assume that all the Blackberry boys are wayyyyy out of my league. I mean, all they need to do is look at my cell phone to see I’m nothing like the other Kirsten Dunst clones.

Strangely, though, fancy suitors are competing for my attention left and right. But I’m having trouble letting down my air of mystique for fear that they will discover my true identity and deem me below their league.

In high school, social castes worked for you and against you. Maybe you weren’t in the popular clique, but at least your role was defined in one way or another and you didn’t really have to worry about social movement. I found true happiness in the dorky halls of the drama wing and couldn’t care less about my social rank.

But now, everything is muddy. I have no idea where I stand, and apparently, I’ve been underestimating myself. Which is a scary — not to mention depressing — prospect.

So what do I do? Obviously, I’ll continue to be my weird self because I’m not sure I know any other way, and intrigue is the greatest boon to romance. But to be league – less is not to care at all, which I’m not sure I can do… although I can definitely pretend. I mean, I’ve got more important things to worry about than $14 martinis and snagging the attention of avant – garde “artistes.” I have crops to rotate and cattle to herd.