what is marriage but prostitution to one man instead of many?

As if I weren’t frustrated enough with my twenty mile commute that somehow manages to take two hours and what the fuck, why can’t you people just move, don’t you know I’m late to work…again… half an hour of this morning’s epic jaunt was spent no, not singing myself into oblivion and inventing entirely embarrassing dance moves, but rather in the epically awkward situation of trying to avoid the attemptive eye fucker in the car next to me. Which is all sorts of impossible because hello there is a window right next to me and he can see everything I do, yes even when I accidently catch his eye and then enact a wildly transparent attempt to pretend no, I don’t see him. When yes, yes I do see you rolling down your window and making ridiculous hand gestures that a.) would make me laugh if they were inappropriate, but b.) are just super lame because really? You’re throwing a thumbs up at my lip ring. No.

But lame pick up attempt aside, my wannabe traffic stopped paramour certainly did have one thing going for him, and I’d be all kinds of lying if I said it was his dark eyes and boyishly tousled hair, nope, he had those, but honestly? I could barely see them past his oh-so-six-figure-costing-Bentley.

You can just go ahead and add gold digger to my list of shiny happy attributes.

Wait! No! Boyfriend! Yes!

Thank god the boy acts as some sort of out of body conscience to my entirely too sociopathic psyche.

Because without him?

I’d surely be riding off in a Bentley on my way to be submerged in a bath tub full of frosting where I would be dismembered (but chocolatey!) and put into matching Louis Vuitton luggage, because no Pretty Woman does not actually happen in Hollywood and young, handsome men driving laughably expensive cars do not make their money being ‘producers’ unless of course what they produce is porn in which case said car will only lead to me being deemed Loose Lips Louise, a used pair of pasties, and the loss of what little dignity I have left.

So. I drove off. Sans phone number. And possible cushy life.

But with a new found assurance of my ability to be a fucking world class gold digger.

Who says I don’t have goals?

job of the day: job? I don’t need a fucking job. i have a sugar daddy!


~ by rubylocks on February 17, 2010.

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