I dream of becoming a world-recognized artist.

A glamorous one, appearing at the yearly Gucci runway shows. Gucci because Florence Welch clearly favors their designers.

I’ll be interviewed, either before or after the show, because journalists know people love reading about me.

I’ll tuck my hair behind my ear and bat my eyes like Courtney Love on Jules Holland, and I’ll be so disarmingly sweet.

Then one day I’ll coin a term without even really thinking about it: “I hate pseudo-creative types.”

“What do you mean by that?” that journalist will ask, enchanted into sincere interest.

I’ll give unimpressed smile, the kind Lana Del Rey is known for: “I mean people like James Franco.”