mother a civil
servant. You could tell she was born right in the heart of everything but
without anything. Showbiz, commerce, and a sense of entitlement flew
right into her hands and became her life. I could relate because she had
lived amongst celebrities her whole life but had
made a name for herself by ratting them out. Thus, she became famous.
I could feel her sycophantic energy latching onto me forcing me to become
her impromptu assistant. She was able to bend my will to hers , like Obi-Wan telling stormtroopers these aren’t the
droids they’re looking for. My mind over-taken by some type of dark,
empty force. Like when Pudgie would come over to me with all of his puppy
dog energy and overwhelm me with his demeanor and charisma and before I knew it
I was driving into Culver City to pick up his drugs or to deliver off the book
pizzas to contacts. Why? There was nothing in it for me. Why
did I do it? There seems to be a cross-section of people who walk this
Earth like that. They take from us and give nothing back. She
reminded me of Rachel Abramsberg. Taking what’s hers, destroying people with a smile and never giving back. This bitch in
the elevator was all of that and more. Her entitlement
a death-ray that had me against the wall. Her life is a stinking
shit pit of denial and exploitation saturated in celebrity endorsed perfume.
Lost and empty. Joyless
and alone. Lots of people like her circled around Devilcountry.
Lurking in doorways with digital cameras. Chasing after Lindsey Lohan
after she stumbles out of a bar. Prying at the strong-willed in a weak
moment. Praying for prey. In the interim they got shmucks like me
to hold doors open for them. Getting other people to do shit they should
be doing for themselves and once the task is complete they take all of the
credit and remind you how stupid you are for showing decency by not showing one
iota of gratitude. It’s bad for business. Showbiz is one of the
last strongholds of Feudalism. Work hard on my spit of land and receive
no credit or thank you. Your only reward is the access I provide, which
is limited, and the ability to do anything I demand again when I ask. No
medical, vision or dental. She was at the heart of this. A Serf once herself, now the overseer. Much like her
former beauty queen looks, it was why the once beautiful and entrancing
landscape known as the City of Angels had turned
to a smogged-out hole of devils.
A vision hits me as I stare at her promenading
like a debutante through the lobby. Schmoozing her way through the press and
publicists that had gathered around one of the bars. The vision is
strong. It is her last dying moment. A lifetime of bulimirexia, face lifts , and gay husbands has finally caught up to her
and she drops in the middle of the lobby of The Four Seasons Hotel. Her
heart no longer able to pump the darkened unoxygenated vitriol that has coursed
through her vulturous cavity all of these empty years. Her spirit begins
to rise above. She walks down the sanctified hallway of the Algonquin hotel,
the golden sounds of Dorothy Parker laughing, and clinking champagne glasses
with a lover laments from behind her. Perfume, lavender and rose petals
are gently hurled at her from all sides. Her olfactory wants being
granted one last dose of pleasantry. She smiles and waves back to friends
and fans. No lovers or husbands are present. Two elevator
doors open gracefully and she is greeted by a solemn yet
pleasant older gentleman who is at the controls of the elevator, ready to speed
her along to her final destination . She enters, turns and smiles back at her fanbase, all of them glued behind the Post that
has her picture and obituary on it. One last muted
smile. A beautiful golden carpet beneath her as she breathes in
the sweet smell of success. The elevator doors close gently.
“Top floor, please.” She cracks, in a
servant. You could tell she was born right in the heart of everything but
without anything. Showbiz, commerce, and a sense of entitlement flew
right into her hands and became her life. I could relate because she had
lived amongst celebrities her whole life but had
made a name for herself by ratting them out. Thus, she became famous.
I could feel her sycophantic energy latching onto me forcing me to become
her impromptu assistant. She was able to bend my will to hers , like Obi-Wan telling stormtroopers these aren’t the
droids they’re looking for. My mind over-taken by some type of dark,
empty force. Like when Pudgie would come over to me with all of his puppy
dog energy and overwhelm me with his demeanor and charisma and before I knew it
I was driving into Culver City to pick up his drugs or to deliver off the book
pizzas to contacts. Why? There was nothing in it for me. Why
did I do it? There seems to be a cross-section of people who walk this
Earth like that. They take from us and give nothing back. She
reminded me of Rachel Abramsberg. Taking what’s hers, destroying people with a smile and never giving back. This bitch in
the elevator was all of that and more. Her entitlement
a death-ray that had me against the wall. Her life is a stinking
shit pit of denial and exploitation saturated in celebrity endorsed perfume.
Lost and empty. Joyless
and alone. Lots of people like her circled around Devilcountry.
Lurking in doorways with digital cameras. Chasing after Lindsey Lohan
after she stumbles out of a bar. Prying at the strong-willed in a weak
moment. Praying for prey. In the interim they got shmucks like me
to hold doors open for them. Getting other people to do shit they should
be doing for themselves and once the task is complete they take all of the
credit and remind you how stupid you are for showing decency by not showing one
iota of gratitude. It’s bad for business. Showbiz is one of the
last strongholds of Feudalism. Work hard on my spit of land and receive
no credit or thank you. Your only reward is the access I provide, which
is limited, and the ability to do anything I demand again when I ask. No
medical, vision or dental. She was at the heart of this. A Serf once herself, now the overseer. Much like her
former beauty queen looks, it was why the once beautiful and entrancing
landscape known as the City of Angels had turned
to a smogged-out hole of devils.
A vision hits me as I stare at her promenading
like a debutante through the lobby. Schmoozing her way through the press and
publicists that had gathered around one of the bars. The vision is
strong. It is her last dying moment. A lifetime of bulimirexia, face lifts , and gay husbands has finally caught up to her
and she drops in the middle of the lobby of The Four Seasons Hotel. Her
heart no longer able to pump the darkened unoxygenated vitriol that has coursed
through her vulturous cavity all of these empty years. Her spirit begins
to rise above. She walks down the sanctified hallway of the Algonquin hotel,
the golden sounds of Dorothy Parker laughing, and clinking champagne glasses
with a lover laments from behind her. Perfume, lavender and rose petals
are gently hurled at her from all sides. Her olfactory wants being
granted one last dose of pleasantry. She smiles and waves back to friends
and fans. No lovers or husbands are present. Two elevator
doors open gracefully and she is greeted by a solemn yet
pleasant older gentleman who is at the controls of the elevator, ready to speed
her along to her final destination . She enters, turns and smiles back at her fanbase, all of them glued behind the Post that
has her picture and obituary on it. One last muted
smile. A beautiful golden carpet beneath her as she breathes in
the sweet smell of success. The elevator doors close gently.
“Top floor, please.” She cracks, in a
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