Look, no. I’m not saying you don’t almost have my number, Facebook ad. You are so close you’re on fire. You may be surprised to learn this about me, who prefers bootcut jeans and has a closet full of black cotton tops from Old Navy, but I love a good high heel. I especially love Christian Louboutins. I don’t own any (and if I did, I think I’d paint over the red sole?), but I have his (horribly designed) website bookmarked and do a daydreamy eBay search every so often for a few certain styles in my size, just for fun. I wear flats and sneakers everywhere I go, but I love a beautiful heel. No platforms, though. My dream shoe is more Italian-mistress-at-a-funeral-circa-1965, less former-Disney-star-doing-shots-while-not-wearing-undies-and-of-course-she’s-bald-down-there. That’s really what most platforms say to me: I wax my business. Yes, we all know.

Now if Kim Kardashian started a lounge pants site like this, I’d be all in. You just know rich people and celebrities are privy to the secret best in everything, especially minor comfort shit, like they all have hand soap in their guest bathrooms that cost more than my parents’ first car, and it smells like a Tuscan villa at midnight but not in an overpowering way. Also they have to have access to crazy awesome eatin’ pants, all cashmere yoga stuff that I would wear to sit on my ten year old couch, eat my Target frozen pizza, and watch Game of Thrones.

I’m waiting for the celebrity to share this stuff with me. And not Oprah, because I don’t trust her. She doesn’t need anyone. Kim Kardashian, she needs people. I want a needy B-list celebrity to send me high-end shower gel and pillowcases for $30 a month. This is America. I’ll be waiting.