Dear Designer Name whore aka my friend,
I truly do adore most things about you; where we differ greatly is your love of designer handbags. I think it's fantastic that you are so chic and give me amazing fashion advice (even on a budget) but one thing I can't take anymore is you complaining about your credit card debit, feeling like an asshole to ask your parents for rent support at age 30 yet text me pictures of the new "love of your life" with a price tag hanging off it at $650.
You don't get to be mad at me that I rained on your parade when I responded, "Are you fucking serious? You bought that? Didn't your parents just pay your rent?"
I get it - I love clothes and shoes like most women, but I'm not racking up debit or having my parents help me with necessities in order to get them. Wake up. I will not celebrate your new purchase because I think it was a stupid, stupid thing to do.