I won't sleep with you to get famous

Hyper mediocrity


I said I have already done LA with a drunken writer.
He said, but have you done LA with a successful drunken writer?

I laughed. I couldn’t help it. He was funny and he knew it, which made him attractive despite the fact that he spent more money on hair products a year than I did.

I spent two hours bantering with the shiny Saab driving, polo with the collar up, J.K. He was trying to convince me that I should sleep with him. Litigating my clothes off, he pleaded that if I didn’t I would look back on my life feeling that I had missed an opportunity to live. I responded likewise, claiming that someday after he had married his beige wife and led the yuppie lifestyle, he would look back on bohemian Natasha wondering what life would have been like with a little color, if only he had given her a chance despite his plans of grandeur.
All in all he comes off like an asshole. He reminds me of the character James Spader plays in Pretty in Pink, where he wants to be sleep with Molly Ringwald and proceeds to have a snotty tantrum, calling Ringwald white trash ass or something else foul and like worded.
So go on back to Beverly Hills and check into rehab with Robert Downey Jr.

But send me a good publisher. Preferablly someone who has a good editor.