real world update, part four
Alright, alright, alright. I'll admit to my lameness. It's Friday night and I'm sitting alone in my hi-rise downtown condo, on my balcony overlooking the city. The festive sounds of the weekend streets drift upwards on a gentle springlike breeze. I made the prudent decision to stay out of sight for the past few days. We Barrington's have never sought the limelight or the glare of those camera hugging paparazzi whores. Yet still it seeks us from time to time. It can't be helped. I'm single, I'm filthy rich, I'm insanely attractive. How could you not want to follow me around with a camera? It's just that given my current situation I'm not in the fucking mood to see my face looking back at me from the cover of some ass-wipe tabloid when I go to the corner store to buy a pack of smokes. So I'm just chilling, and waiting.
I'm waiting for those camera hugging whores to get bored hanging out watching nothing happen with me. They'll move on. They always do. You see, I've learned that those bastards in the pop culture media that nip like a pack of wild rabid dogs have a short attention span. Just hole up and wait the bitches out. It's only a matter of time until some other gazelle from the celebrity herd shows weakness. Just be patient and wait for them to move on. True enough, with the ongoing Anna circus and the recent complete meltdown of that skank Britney, my little life is rapidly becoming a lot less interesting to the soccer moms and trailer trash who buy that shit and keep those assholes employed. By Monday, they will all be gone and I can resume my normal life.
Normal life? Yeah right. If only. I'm still fucking stuck here.
Earlier tonight I called the manager at that yuppie hole I frequent and asked him to send me some dinner. Like the past few nights, I requested that the hot New Waitress with the small diamond stud in her nose and the rockabilly tattoos deliver it to me. Man, has she ever been earning some exceptional tips. Talk about customer service with a smile. . .
Thirty minutes later there's a knock on my door. I open the door with a polite grin and half a woody's worth of anticipation only to see Diego standing there holding the styrafoam take-out box. He sees the disappointment on my face. As he's handing me the box he pulls a large hand rolled fatty from the pocket of his knock-off hip-hop designer label hoodie. From past experience I recognize that it's the high quality shit imported by the cartel that controls the region his home village is in.
Alright man, come on in.
As I spark it up he tells me that the Hot Waitress got off early to go see her boyfriend's band play some dive club gig. He tells me that he was just getting off work when I called. He says he volunteered to deliver my dinner. Guess he's still angling for me to give him a fish.
I offer him a beer and we spend the next half hour toking and talking. He reaches in his pocket a second time and pulls out some photos of his two kids that he says he just got in the mail from his wife in Guatamala. He says he misses his family and can't wait until he's saved enough to pay the coyote that's offered to bring them up.
The poor bastard, he has yet to learn that family is frequently a curse that only drags you down.
I'm waiting for those camera hugging whores to get bored hanging out watching nothing happen with me. They'll move on. They always do. You see, I've learned that those bastards in the pop culture media that nip like a pack of wild rabid dogs have a short attention span. Just hole up and wait the bitches out. It's only a matter of time until some other gazelle from the celebrity herd shows weakness. Just be patient and wait for them to move on. True enough, with the ongoing Anna circus and the recent complete meltdown of that skank Britney, my little life is rapidly becoming a lot less interesting to the soccer moms and trailer trash who buy that shit and keep those assholes employed. By Monday, they will all be gone and I can resume my normal life.
Normal life? Yeah right. If only. I'm still fucking stuck here.
Earlier tonight I called the manager at that yuppie hole I frequent and asked him to send me some dinner. Like the past few nights, I requested that the hot New Waitress with the small diamond stud in her nose and the rockabilly tattoos deliver it to me. Man, has she ever been earning some exceptional tips. Talk about customer service with a smile. . .
Thirty minutes later there's a knock on my door. I open the door with a polite grin and half a woody's worth of anticipation only to see Diego standing there holding the styrafoam take-out box. He sees the disappointment on my face. As he's handing me the box he pulls a large hand rolled fatty from the pocket of his knock-off hip-hop designer label hoodie. From past experience I recognize that it's the high quality shit imported by the cartel that controls the region his home village is in.
Alright man, come on in.
As I spark it up he tells me that the Hot Waitress got off early to go see her boyfriend's band play some dive club gig. He tells me that he was just getting off work when I called. He says he volunteered to deliver my dinner. Guess he's still angling for me to give him a fish.
I offer him a beer and we spend the next half hour toking and talking. He reaches in his pocket a second time and pulls out some photos of his two kids that he says he just got in the mail from his wife in Guatamala. He says he misses his family and can't wait until he's saved enough to pay the coyote that's offered to bring them up.
The poor bastard, he has yet to learn that family is frequently a curse that only drags you down.
posted by dr noyz @ 11:51 AM
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