CHAPTER ONE
At three in the morning, you'd expect peace and serenity in the air yet here I am cursing my father's existence who is currently breaking mother's finest crystals downstairs. Unfortunately, daddy had a bit too much Moët & Chandon Dom Perignon White Gold at the Waldenome's dinner earlier tonight and now he is having a bit of a barbaric awakening. I personally blame the Waldenomes for this chaos. They have this annoying habit of hosting extravagant dinners every month, which according to our father, are mandatory to attend in order to maintain our friendly relationship with them. What he doesn't know is that even if we stopped attending these bullocks excuse for dinners, Mr. Waldenome would still be on good terms with us. Unless the old man wants naked pictures of him kissing a minor to surface on the front page of The Telegraph.
Yes, I have an affair going on with my 49 year old neighbour, so what. I'd have gone for his 19 year old son but he is a lanky geeky bloke and that is not my type. His father on the other hand looks like a taller British version of Tom Cruise and I've always vouched for that type. I've always preferred older men for two reasons. First, they are way more experienced than boys my age and secondly, they're rich enough to take me for shopping at Tiffany & Co. and Harry Winston. Men who think that getting a girl a box of chocolates and roses is a big thing, are a dealbreaker for me. For a girl like me, chocolates and roses are't worth shit. I'm more of a Tiffany Atlas bracelet kind of girl. I've collected over 28 until now, courtesy of my Mr. Waldenome, Mr. Bradbury, Mr. Robinwel, Mr. Garfield and the list goes on and on.
It's almost four am and he still hasn't stopped yelling like a homeless prostitute on crack. I'm not complaining because I have to get up for school in four hours and survive Mrs. Gonzalez's two hours Spanish class without calling her a cunt, who if I may add, is a fat cow with no fashion sense and the voice of a gorilla humping a deer. Father darling's ruckus is ruining my 'doing heroin on the balcony' ritual. Yes, I'm up at this hour on a school night doing heroin on my room's balcony. I do it almost every night after midnight as it's revitalizes my soul and it's obligatory for me to feel great everyday. Me and my beauty regimens.
It's five am now and he has finally stopped. Probably passed out after vomiting on the Persian rug grandmother imported from Baghdad. He truly is a miserable pitiable soul. Lord, I haven't gotten any sleep. How on Earth will I survive school, my family and life in general. I've been feeling pretty bizarre. lately. I must be PMS-ing. Thank God, I have adderall to help me keep my shit together. Which reminds me that I'll have to screw Douglas Harington for the twentieth time to restack my adderall stash, not that I'm complaining. I mean, he is one fine lad blessed in every department of life and hands down, the best kisser I've ever came across and believe me when I say that I've had a taste of lips from around the world but Douglas takes the cake. He can also fuck like a violent sadistic alcoholic which is definitely my kind of fucking. I personally think that love should be violent; filled with pain and pleasure, simultaneously. That's the kind of love which has passion; which is real; which i would like to experience. I better get some champagne to mentally prepare myself for the torturous day that awaits me. I really hope mother saved some of that Crystel E'Souize Silver that Mrs. Rotherwood gifted us for Thanksgiving.
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