Orange County, a suburban bubble of contradictions. A cracked consciousness lurks beneath the smooth exterior of a perfectly Botoxed face. Veneers are flashed without the mouth conforming to a smile. A place so beautiful that you don’t want to believe the stereotypes. Your brain muddles denial with reality. Natural beauty is celebrated only in its landscapes. The curves considered desireable are the ones that guide Bentleys and Maseratis down the PCH toward the nearest cultivated waterway. Or the ones you paid for. Money can’t buy tolerance, but wealth indicates social acceptance. Stepford Wives dominate the dating scene, faking orgasms for diamond rings and material things. You’ve got your male gold-diggers, older women with younger men, and wealthy widows waiting to pounce on your age-inappropriate boyfriend. Marriage is for the birds. Send your kids to boarding school. Valium-induced affairs are the new fountain of youth. And as long as there’s always someone younger and hotter fucking you, you’re still relevant. Even if not, you could buy your way into someone’s silicone enhanced chest. It’s OK, because they put Prozac in the water, and the truth is a drag anyway.