I always seem to gravitate towards the finer things in life, even as a little girl.

I'm immediately drawn to the glitz and glam, and there was a time in my life where I truly thought I was a princess. At one point in my life "Material Girls" was my favorite movie.

My IKEA lofted bed had a slide attached to it, so every morning I would climb to the bottom of my bed, sit on the edge of the slide and slide down into an abundance of throw pillows.

I chose Barbies over Bratz every time and if you remember every little girl's favorite toy, American Girl Dolls, well I had eight.

There was a time I asked my Dad for a $300 giant plush teddy bear and then proceeded to throw a fit in the middle of a New York City toy store because my little brain couldn't fathom why he said no.

My original "dream car" was a silver Italian corvette, and all of this was well before I ever knew what expensive meant.

Now that I am truly a broke college student my expensive taste is getting me into trouble more than ever.

Like many Blair Waldolf admirers, I am a spender, not a saver.

Retail therapy is the only kind I believe in and by the looks of the receipts buried at the bottom of my bag, I should probably find another outlet.

Now before I continue, I give all the thrift store obsessed hippies free range to roast me, but I am no longer ashamed of my love for top dollar items.

I have learned to embrace that I will forever feel more at home lounging in a day spa than I ever will hiking through the woods, but my ever-present problem today is that I am now a broke college student.

The simpler days of strolling into the salon for a quick blowout to start the week off right are long over and my gel manicures have sadly become few and far between.

Still, every time I go out to a nice restaurant I glance over the lobster tails without a price next to them more than once and depending who I'm with, thoroughly debate ordering them, though never do.

South Moon Under still remains my favorite store and though I still make my regular appearances, I fight the echoing voice in my head that says "treat yo self" while browsing the racks.

Though my debit card works more like a gift card these days, never knowing how much is on there and praying to whatever higher power exists that it will cover my Sephora tab, I like what I like, and there's nothing I or anyone else can do to make me spend my money elsewhere.

Yours Truly,

A wannabe rich girl

P.S.

Now that you've read this go listen to Gwen Stefani's "Rich Girl," cause it's an anthem.