I Am the Mona Lisa. Remember Me?

Or can you magpies not see beyond the glint of hard rocks? Have you already forgotten about the woman who put the Louvre on the map?! There was a time, and it wasn’t that long ago, when I was the most talked-about piece of art in this museum.

In fact, people visited the Louvre to pay a pilgrimage to me. They fought elbow to elbow with tourists from all over the world to lay their eyes upon my visage and take a photo of me. (As if they would ever forget my face!) Trust me, I don’t need to orchestrate any PR stunts to have throngs of personal paparazzi at my disposal and making a fuss about me, unlike those stolen calcified trinkets.

Yes, I’ve heard about them, even from my prime real estate in the Salle des États gallery. Word travels around fast when that room is empty. I was supposed to receive my usual daily 20,000 to 30,000 adoring fans today, but now I’m sitting on the wall surrounded by losers like Titian because the missing French horcruxes shut the entire place down.

Trust me, I’m not smiling.

It’s embarrassing to the people of France that I greeted no guests yesterday. I am their greatest ambassador, rivaled only by my fellow immigrant, Netflix’s Emily Cooper.

I literally am the most famous woman on the planet, of all time. You might say “B-b-b-but Taylor Swift!” Shut the hell up. Did Copernicus ever know a “Taylor Swift?” No. But he knew of a Mona Lisa. I exist in the same timeline as the invention of the printing press and acid wash jeans. I’ve had cameos in a Beyoncé and Jay-Z music video and Looney Tunes: Back in Action. I’m culturally important and inspiring. What thought have the crown jewels ever provoked? What songs have Elton John sung about them? What films have they begat? That’s right—none with Tom Hanks.

I’m the most popular piece of art here. I’m certainly the most expensive item, too, with a valuation upwards of $1 billion. The jewels they ran off with were chump change compared to me, and quite frankly, not even the best ones. They should have at least tried putting the Crown of Louis XV in a doggy bag while they wrapped up their seven-minute spree. Honestly, though, accessories are overrated. I haven’t worn jewelry in centuries, and I’m a style icon.

So with all this in mind, riddle me this. When news broke that nine jewelry pieces were stolen from the Louvre, why did nobody ask, “Is the Mona Lisa okay?”

Because I’m not. I’m really, really hurt.

I’m no pick me girl, but I keep asking myself, “Why didn’t the thieves pick me?” Is it because I’m getting older? No, that only makes me more valuable. So surely the thieves were planning on stealing me next, right? I’m not just Mona Lisa. I’m the Mona Lisa. Beyoncé and Madonna don’t even get an article in front of their name; I do.

I’m losing my mind. I go one day without being the most-discussed piece of art at the Louvre, and I’m ready to ask for the soup du jour thrown in my face.

Maybe I’m just jealous. Those jewels were removed from their display boxes and touched and held.

There was once a time when I was touched and held, too. In some ways, I crave that today. The last person to lay his hands on me was an Italian. Yes, he kidnapped me and smuggled me out of the country and forced me into hiding for two years, but still. That was an all-expenses paid trip to my native Florence with room and board.

Either way, I’m so ready for us to finish this “crown jewels stolen” narrative as a global society and instead turn it back to me and treat me like the priceless precious gem that I actually am.

But be warned, Paris: If I don’t get a modicum of attention soon, I will leave. I’ve done it before. I can do it again.

And if that doesn’t bring me to the forefront of the zeitgeist, then I’ll wear the new SKIMS faux-bush thong to really get people talking about the Mona Lisa once more.