Because a bed of beautiful naked women is not actually that comfortable — this I have tried.
by Wish you were here
Every once in a while…or rather, I should say, very rarely, I get referred to as rich or wealthy or any number of synonyms that don’t actually fit me. At all. It’s usually people from my past past, those people in high school. They seem mesmerized by little things like my rent (not that much; I have 2 roommates). Or my shoes (I like pretty things, unfortunately). Or the cost of my manicure (this is actually a matter of practicality — I loathe sitting for an hour at a time, each week, so I opt for the two hours every six weeks which ends up being hella expensive). Anyway, I don’t volunteer this information. They just insistently ask, which is usually followed by some measure of congratulations. (For what, I wonder…)
But it’s all relative. My life isn’t any better or richer or happier. In fact, I’d posit that Biggie Smalls was entirely correct in his assertion that more money leads to more problems.
There’s never enough, for one.
And it doesn’t make anything easier.
I’m miserable. If only I could tell them how I can only go to sleep with 3+ glasses of whisky, 2+ benzodiazepines, and even then, the sleep is hard to come by. Granted, my unhappiness is likely due to actual abuse, actual neglect, actual mental illnesses, but I can never help but think that I wouldn’t even have the time of day to entertain the problems that I do if I were starving.
My dog eats better than most people in this world. (Organic, grain-free lamb kibble). My cat does, too. I have more foie gras than I know what to do with. There’s lobster in my fridge from Bouchon that’s likely going to go bad before I remember that I should do something about it…
H often says money is freedom. Sure. Whatever. Yeah, I can afford this criminal defense attorney if I get a DUI, or this divorce attorney should my ex-husband start making a ruckus again, or this therapist because I’m a bit messed up in the head.
What does it mean if all I’m eyeing is an Hermès bracelet, and if all I want is to sleep for a hundred years, only to be woken by an actual prince?
Je veux seulement l’oublier…
Musings on $
Ugh why did I agree to go out with F tonight? I should pretend I’m on a no sex kick or something. Well, I sort of am.
Fuck, I look worn out today. But my new bracelet is sparkly!!!
Stopped by Saks on the way home
Wassily chairs are soooo uncomfortable.
I discovered that my dog does not actually like lobster. Or foie gras. Starting to think maybe he’s not my dog.
$160 manicure, H’s ridiculous wayfarers, 10 year old scotch (I forget which). THE RARE SMILE.
Did some bumps of coke in H’s Porsche yesterday, driving from the yacht clubs of SF to Wayfare Tavern. I remarked to him that the other day, when I was grocery shopping, the police were making some bust on an SUV as I was waiting at the nearby bus stop, and I realized that there was half a gram in my purse.
Thank god I get my car back tomorrow morning.
Here come the narc with the German Shepherd
STILL NO CAR!!!
Waldorf Astoria Pool
Friday: OAK ✈ MDW / Waldorf suite / Benard’s Bar + Laphroaig 18 + Thomas Handy Rye / H & my lawyer + cocaine / passed out from too many benzodiazepines
Saturday: Drive to MKE / Dinner with family at Lake Park Bistro / Perrier Jouet Fleur de Champagne 2004 / discovery that Milwaukee stops selling liquor at 11pm / Back to Chicago / Super Smash Bros
Sunday: Waldorf pool with my sister / parents in Chicago / disastrous dinner + too many benzodiazepines + the only thing the restaurant had was Johnnie Walker / Balsan oysters + whisky / H at 2am, maybe 3am to console me
Monday: Barneys shopping / W Lakeshore Moroccan-style bloody marys (x2) / 9:30am conference call with work / irony at Bennigan’s / Art Institute + Nighthawks / the beach / sickness / late night thunderstorms + lightning / roughest sex thus far with H
Tuesday: Bloomingdales, Neiman Marcus / 96th Floor Lounge / Shedd Aquarium, but did not see the belugas / afternoon tea at the Peninsula / finish the cocaine / the beach / H reads me his favorite scenes from American Psycho / rough sex / hunger resulting in too much junk food / more rough sex / break / sleep
Wednesday: Cru Cafe & Wine Bar + champagne / MDW ✈ SFO / more Bret Easton Ellis / Laphroaig on the taxi home / 10 grams waiting for us
Waldorf Astoria Chicago, Friday to Wednesday.
“Is it safe to check in champagne on a flight?”
I don’t want any Dom breaking and spilling over everything. Then again, possibly wiser to purchase a bottle in Chicago.
Latest Google Search
Maybe I’ll be here in October. Maybe not. Mykonos.