Who the hell does he think he is? He doesn’t have an agent yet he has the balls to shoot down Josh like he was Tom Cruise or something. I’m so tired of his shit and would have dumped him right there on the spot had MTV not insisted on a couple. I swear to god if he passes up on this we’re done.
“I just think we should meet with the production company so we can evaluate our options.”
Options. What options? Well, I suppose you could always fall back on your deodorant commercial…oh no wait being the primo dipshit retard that you are you even managed to fuck that up.
“I guess.” I say and smile through gritted teeth.
I try my best to ignore him as he alternates between checking girls and himself out in the passenger mirror. Was he always such an asshole?
“What?”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You don’t have to it’s all over your face.”
“I’m just tired, okay?”
He flicks a dial on the radio and ignores me. Maybe Tammy’s right and I should just dump his sorry ass.
It isn’t until I notice the Spanish tiled roofs that I realize I’m cruising along north Highland Avenue on autopilot and nearly home. The whole street seems so needlessly private -with black electric gates and security shutters- considering there isn’t a house on the street worth burgling. Even the architecture seems quite sinister as most the houses look like small compact churches or big lockups. Everything about the place just smacks of pedophile.
“You hungry? Because I think I might get a pizza from Papa John’s when we get back.”
Is it not bad enough living behind the place without eating there most days too?
“I think I’ll pass.”
What else should I really have expected from a man who’s content to work in a novelty sixties diner for chump change? Asking him to have ambition is like asking a penis vagtrap like Paris Hilton to close her legs. I wasn’t even aware coin operated laundry existed until I met him. My life hasn’t so much become a series of compromise as much as a spiral of degeneration. Every day is such a struggle and yet he expects me to just soldier on without even the sustenance of fresh organic fruit to keep me going. Survival is a luxury to him and when I complain he has the balls to suggest that non-organic fruit is exactly the same! Even though his radioactive apples still sit on the kitchen countertop un-aged since the day he bought them three weeks ago. Between that and the processed food I have to endure on a daily basis I’m surprised I’m not riddled with cancer. If it wasn’t for Daddy I’d probably be roaming the streets in garbage bags.

Previous Chapter.

From the beginning.