Friday, June 8, 2012

Foreign Travel & American Entitlement

Ingredients for this My Time: getting the fuck out of 'Merica, little bottles of tequila to bring on the plane (thanks, Tay), hiding places, exta-lift bras.

Honey, my little pure-bred Siamese cat is safe with her sitters, my mother and brother have successfully moved in and one has gone to jail for insider trading (one down, one to go! I kid. It's actually sad. If I hadn't removed my tear ducts after my first divorce to keep the world from knowing my profound pain, I would cry), I've hidden my possessions, I got a bad attitude, and cut half my hair off. So, being that I'm a woman of the world, from nowhere really, I'm ready to go, and terrified of leaving. But, a good bra can make any woman lift her chin an extra inch into the air to provide a reasonable space between tit and face. Honey, I may have a bad attitude, but this bitch's chin is lifted. Where you from?
Which reminds me, because you see, Honey, I have some feelings that seep out sometime when I'm not looking for THEM, and I heard through the rich person email listserv that an authority figure (of wealth) recently said that peons, like me, a mere millionaire, are too entitled and complain too much, while when he was working through his millions to billions, he would have never complained about some such nonsense. Honey, only in 'Merica does meta complaining happen. Well, this elegant gash is getting out of this shit pile to another richer, oil baron country where instead of men complaining about complaining they complain about real things, like, why are you so fat? Why isn't your shirt off yet? Why are we still talking? Do you like yachts? Why don't you get a Brazilian? Are you good at keeping secrets? How much? Only a system that facilitates complaining as a way to avoid dealing with actual messes has the luxury of complaining about complaining. That damn gym! How I loathe and need my workout amongst billionaires! How I crave their mildly polite attention in a socially cold climate, but how I suffer from the inability to workout in my heels, without irony, just complete, pure sincerity at work that needs a pat on the back while I work toward my goal! I will never succeed in this small world of working out...

Me, I'm just all out there and terrible, as is 'Merica, but it simultaneously has its lips pressed so tight that they blister. Me, my lips couldn't be looser. Haha I kid--of course I've had rejuvenation.

It's probably because I'm entitled that I can't see the forest for the mentally ill trees. It's probably because I'm a tall, naked monster. It's probably because my next husband will be consumed through my teeth-bearing vagina and puked out in gold coins through my mouth while I scream for Sum Gratification.
my body is a nightmareland
Now that, Honey, will be a hard day worth complaining about, over champers for all the 'Merican billionaires on me, of course. If my plane doesn't crash, see you at the gym in July, Honey, and Authority: I just might see you again. If not, I'm sure your life will be much easier. If we must meet and you must smile accordingly, I expect a pretend-hug and champers toast in crystal goblets. I promise to never complain about the blood soaked towels and noodles in the toilet of the gym again. Because those things are so normal.

Seeing as how all of this has made complete sense, I now depart. I have many hats and low-cut bathing suits to pack for my foreign travel.

your Daggy

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