Too Many Secrets to Live
Oh, how easy it is to loathe them, those obnoxiously self-important little rich kids... the ones born with tiny silver spoons in their mouths, whose every whim will be catered to by a host of cooks and nannies and household staff... children who have birthday parties that cost several thousand dollars, get whisked off in private jets and chauffeured limos for weekend getaways, and receive haute couture wardrobes and Lamborghinis as gifts once they’re teenagers... and who are always, always secure in the knowledge they’ll never want for anything... not when they’re destined, one day, to run huge companies, command vast fortunes, and otherwise lord over what they consider hoi polloi (that would be you and me, if you’re unsure). Yes, it’s almost ridiculously easy to hate them. Dredging up any sympathy for those in the throes of teenage angst is, therefore, no easy task. With the world (read “every man-made convenience that makes life better”) at their fingertips, how could they...