Nonsense

business partnerships (almost) always turn sour.

here we are in our fancy schmancy duds smiling from here to alaska and pretending everyone loves one another.

i’m on straight whiskey glass number three and wanting to punch the lady next to me right in the tit if she brings up her charity one more time. normally alcohol smoothes me out but for some reason it’s winding me up into a pissy missy.

“are you from la?” he asks with a smile. he asks it hesitantly and i can tell he hates it but can’t know why.

“no, why?” i answer. i’ll tell him where i’m from after he tells me why he asked.

“cause people say this place is great but i think it’s dirty,” he answered.

i nodded while watching him pick up a piece of lettuce hiding in a crouton to stuff it in his mouth.

“well, i’m from the dirt,” i said with a smile.

he laughed.

fucker. i was dead ass serious and getting angrier about the money spent on food cause i’m a lot of things but anorexic isn’t one of them.

i waved to a lady that wasn’t even looking at me and walked away from him. i never know how to end those awkward interactions. do i say “bye, see you somewhere in the ballroom later” or “hope you feel clean before the night’s over” or “good luck on your hunger”. shit. i don’t know.

i head toward the bar and then the bathroom wondering how long i can hide in a stall before dancing begins, lights are turned down and i need to find a dancing partner, preferably one not as hungry as me.