Preview
An innocent question prompted by a freshman, fresh in collage wielded innocents instead of sin . She asks me Ari, where are you going to be in 5 yeas? Five years? Ha! Well if I face my fears and embrace staying here I’d probably be a writer swallowing my words and chasing them with beers. I could see it now, how my life would be. Oh what I wouldn’t give to live so chemically free under the influence of coincidences mixed in with a higher education and detrimental acquaintances I see as family to me. Never a dull moment so careless, yet fearless to show it to all that know how crazy I could be.
5 years later?
I could see it now, I’m sitting in my glorious studio apartment high in the hills of Cali rushing to meet this damn deadline, my editor is a bitch, a good lay, but a bitch none the less. Sitting in my 1980’s art deco chair that screams garage sale all over it, in front of my typewriter (because I’m old school like that) typing like I have a vendetta against all the keys. A single light lit in the whole apartment the little orange one at the end of my cigarette. The sun is about to set and everything is painted that fierce shade of yellow which makes it seem like all my objects are on fire in the room. Before I know it the moon is up, cooling off all my possessions. I’m still there like always typing. Horribly postured attacking the keys I hear my cat she’s hungry I hear her back there…somewhere scratching my $600 sofa again. Attention whore.
I like that sofa but It’s not enough to peel me away form my passion. The phone rings I don’t care. Ok I lie. I pick it up. “Yo Ari we’re all going to head down to the bar for a few drin…” he stops mid sentence to listen to the keys on the keyboard in the back ground take their abuse, then I hear him say to the people he’s with “never mind guys, he’s writing again” then 40…no wait 70 people simultaneously go “awww!” click he’s gone. Hours go by and I finally finish. I put the article aside for tomorrow at the office, pull the keys to the Porsche out of my diesel pants pocket and toss them on the marble table and crash on the couch, phone rings again.
“No Lindsey Lohan I can’t party tonight I’m exhausted” click.
Yeah, that works...where are you going to be in 5?
5 years later?
I could see it now, I’m sitting in my glorious studio apartment high in the hills of Cali rushing to meet this damn deadline, my editor is a bitch, a good lay, but a bitch none the less. Sitting in my 1980’s art deco chair that screams garage sale all over it, in front of my typewriter (because I’m old school like that) typing like I have a vendetta against all the keys. A single light lit in the whole apartment the little orange one at the end of my cigarette. The sun is about to set and everything is painted that fierce shade of yellow which makes it seem like all my objects are on fire in the room. Before I know it the moon is up, cooling off all my possessions. I’m still there like always typing. Horribly postured attacking the keys I hear my cat she’s hungry I hear her back there…somewhere scratching my $600 sofa again. Attention whore.
I like that sofa but It’s not enough to peel me away form my passion. The phone rings I don’t care. Ok I lie. I pick it up. “Yo Ari we’re all going to head down to the bar for a few drin…” he stops mid sentence to listen to the keys on the keyboard in the back ground take their abuse, then I hear him say to the people he’s with “never mind guys, he’s writing again” then 40…no wait 70 people simultaneously go “awww!” click he’s gone. Hours go by and I finally finish. I put the article aside for tomorrow at the office, pull the keys to the Porsche out of my diesel pants pocket and toss them on the marble table and crash on the couch, phone rings again.
“No Lindsey Lohan I can’t party tonight I’m exhausted” click.
Yeah, that works...where are you going to be in 5?