Eight slow hours.

[unburiable]

The rich kids in class were always talking the loudest. Even when the teacher was in the middle of explaining what a paradigm was. You would think that always having everything they ever wanted would sort of make the rich kids bored of everything; even talking. But that really wasn’t so, I guess. Maybe the hot new cars they could afford were always

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Jason Robards in Crimson Tide.

[unburiable]

The hot word in the board rooms is that somebody’s been cynically strutting her stuff around town in the guise of my “wife.” The day I throw my $12,000-insured knees down on some half-hearted vows for some starlet I already slapped down $340,000 for to let her finger sport precious metals that are supposed to speak the poetry of my heart . . . well that’s the day I do it so well that people are crying when the director yells, “Cut! And that’s a wrap!”

I’d like to skim through my day planner for the past few years and find all those free hours I’m supposedly guilty of where I could have wasted such valuable time fucking around with being in love. The only woman in my life is, technically, my secretary Belinda. She makes the best coffee, she lights my cigarettes before I can even get the filter guard to my lips, she warns me when Jerry Bruckheimer is on his way up to the office so I don’t have two waste six hours talking about a movie with guns and explosions and digital time travel that only takes, all in all, 17 minutes to write once the plot is decided.

The short and thick of it is that it’s tough having three girlfriends when there’s a wife waiting at one of your homes. Got it?

Tabloids are poison. Shove them up your ass, alright? I just got a call from a girl who I saw in a David Lynch film and arranged for an introduction to. So I’m cutting this short with a middle finger.

Neil Garriscond.