She comes from money, and she supposes that is what matters most - everything is handed to her on a silver platter, silver spoon in her mouth, and she never does quite familiarize herself with the word 'no'. The world is her oyster, literally and figuratively, when she graduates high school; she thinks she might travel the world, maybe backpack through South America or spend her days half-drunk on a Parisian terrace. Her mother is little more than a trophy wife and her father is one of the richest men in the real estate industry - so they'd support her in most endeavors, and yet when she chooses to attend a small liberal arts college to study art, they're less than thrilled. But she doesn't care: she just wants to paint and smoke and lounge on the quad, book of obscure and pretentious poetry in hand. She dyes her hair pink because her mother hates it; it makes her look poor, frivolous, childish. But she likes the looks she gets, likes the way people's eyes are drawn to her, drawn to the enigma of pink hair and glasses that look plucked from her grandfather's nose and oversized denim jackets and long legs.

The thing is, though: she doesn't really care about the curriculum, the degree, any of it. She picked art because it was easy, because she's always had a knack for it and it required little work - but the motivation isn't there, the drive and passion and effort is channeled more into lounging, chilling, smoking. She coasts, and that's the way she likes it. Not even a professor in chunky knits with piercing eyes will change that - or, at least, so she thinks.