So who am I? That's one secret I'll never tell.

Ever have that totally freakish feeling that someone is listening in on your conversations, spying on you and your friends while you sip lattes on the ivory-colored steps of the Metropolitan Museum Of Art, following you to premieres and parties, and just generally stalking you? Well, they are. Or actually, I am. And the truth is, I've been here all along, because I'm one of you. One of the chosen Ones.

Don't get out much? Hair is so processed it's fried your brain? Perhaps you're not one of us after all and you have no clue what I'm talking about or who 'we' are. Allow me to explain. We're an exclusive group of indescribably beautiful people who happen to live in those majestic, green winged, white-glove-doorman buildings near Central Park. We attend Manhattan’s most elite single-sex private schools. Our families own yachts, estates, and vineyards in various exotic locations throughout the world. We frequent all the best beaches and the most exclusive ski resorts in Austria and Utah. We're seated immediately at the finest restaurants in the richest neighborhoods with hardly a reservation. We turn heads. But don't confuse us with Hollywood actors or models or rock stars- those people you feel like you know because you read too much about them in tabloids, but who are actually completely boring compared to the roles they play or the ballads they sing. There's nothing boring about me or my friends, and the more I tell you about us, the more you'll be dying to know. I've kept quiet until now, but something has happened and if I don't share it with the world I'm absolutely going to burst.


The greatest story ever told.

We learned in twelfth-grade creative writing class this week that most great stories begin in one of the following fashions: someone mysteriously disappears, or someone comes back to town. The tale I'm about to tell is of the "someone comes back to town" variety,

To be specific, Serena Van Der Woodsen is back from boarding school.

Her hair is longer, paler. Her blue eyes has the mysteriousness of kept secrets. She wears the same old fabulous clothes, now in rags from fending off New England storms. This morning S's laughter echoed off the steps of the Met, where we will no longer enjoy a quick smoke and a cappuccino without seeing her waving to us from her parent's apartment across the street. We are all dying to ask her why she got kicked out of boarding school, but we won't, because we'd rather she stayed away. But S is definitely here.

Just to be safe, we should all synchronize our watches. If we aren't careful, S is going to win over our teachers, wear that dress we couldn't fit into, eat the last olive, have sex in our parent's beds, spill Campari on our rugs, steal our brothers' and our boyfriends' hearts, and basically ruin our lives and piss us off in a major way.

An epic such as this requires an observant, quick-witted scribe. That would be me, since I was at the science of every crime, and I happen to have an impeccable eye for the most outrageous details. So sit back, white I unravel the past and reveal everyone's secrets, because I know everything, and what I don’t know I'll invent elaborately.

Admit it, you're already falling for me.

you know you love me,
gossip girl