Not even semi-precious

How cool are you, really, sullen girls with your low-rider jeans and exposed thongs and insouciance, slouching and slumping in clumps by the museum steps, looking around as if the world is not only your oyster but the pearl created by it (although of course it’s a cultured pearl and not a naturally-occurring one, so, really, where’s the excitement in that?). How cool you are with your bulbous guts extruded between your too-tight Ts and the tops of your waistbands (or hipbands) and your lank dirty hair and your smudgy eyeliner and lipgoop and your bad frosty-polish pedicures. (“Why spend $25 at a salon when I can do it at home!”) (Answer: Because when you do it at home, honey, it looks like shit. Plain ‘n’ simple. With sprinkles/jimmies on top. And a cherry.)
How cool you are, how hip and urban(e). Too cool to exert the energy to crack smiles or allow any inflection into your voices. Too cool for good humor, except the kind that comes wrapped in paper and drips, rapidly melting, down your wrist.
And how utterly totally absofuckinglutely cool you are as you shuffle your way to the huge burgundy and white tour bus, you daredevils, you nomads, flying by the seat of your too-tight pants world-weary jaded travellers. What an adventure!