Disclaimer: I'm far too poor to own anything.
Blair Waldorf's life. Seen through a rose colored camera lens that she breaks, time after time, without fail. (Blair Waldorf never fails.) So there are shards of glass littering the floor, crushed under a pair of four inch heels until there's nothing left to see. She always buys a new lens, though, in the same color. And the movie in her head plays on:
Scene one has the heroine in a black dress. When she looks in the mirror, she thinks she ought to be thinner. When one is dating a boy as pretty as a girl, one must be a girl as thin as a boy. And though hand down the throat is standard in this place where money comes hand over fist, she doesn't want vomit stains on her dress. It's an Eleanor Waldorf original, and Eleanor Waldorf doesn't need to know she's been eating. Not that Eleanor Waldorf would ever notice.
The whole of act two has been erased. The return of the blond paves the way for the breakup, which is only made interesting with the help of creative editing. And even then it's not very remarkable. Henry Mancini doesn't play in the background, there's no reference to Paris, and the sky doesn't even have the decency to rain. There is another boy, though. That boy would say that he wanted to take her in his arms, if he said things like that. But he doesn't, and the thing he wants to take has nothing to do with words. (About this he's never been subtle.) But then that night they're in the back of a car, city noises playing on a loop in the background, and he gets surprisingly close to something romantic. There's still danger in his voice: the audience laughs nervously and girls at dark parties have one hand around a glass of champagne and the other on a can of mace. But he's looking at her in a way she's never seen him look at a girl before, and she leans her head in until her nose touches his. They may have held hands.
(If they did, she's since edited it out of the movie.)
Fast forward through secret rendezvous and bright red tights to boys fighting in a street. Her name is yelled; a punch is thrown. But there are no guns and there is no Technicolor blood. On these streets they're more likely to shoot up than shoot at, and even then only in the privacy of their own homes. Here death is a bottle of bills in a hand slowly relaxing its grasp, and people die not with a bang but with a simper. Perhaps it's all for the best. The blood would stain her dress, and not even Dorota would be able to get that damn spot out. Not for lack of trying, though, to her credit.
So after it all, they don't have Paris, Cat still doesn't have a name, and here's looking at you kid is no fun when no one ever looks at her. Second chances disappear faster than a helicopter en route to JFK, and broken promises leave more things broken than just words. But she will pick herself up, as she always does, and she'll come home with a new hair color and new edge to her smile. Thankfully, her eyes don't match her mouth. Those eyes still have the same rose colored tint (which for some reason only he can see).
They play the game of destruction: he does things Paul would never have done to Holly (and she does things Holly would never have done to Paul). When she closes her eyes, though, she always skips to the last scene. (They are inevitable, after all). Music swells in the movie in her head. There's rain and there's a cat and there's a kiss. But then the film runs out. All that's left is a black screen.
That's Blair Waldorf's life.