You'd assume I'd be able to afford happiness with all this money, but the truth of the matter is, and brace yourselves for this one… money really can't buy happiness.
Surprise!
Oh, wait, I bet you knew that already. Well I didn't. That little nugget of wisdom served as a sobering blow during my later formative years. I mean, I could buy fleets of hulking airliners, enough luxury vehicles to span from coast to coast and back, a fucking country, even! Unattainable did not belong in my diction, but as I grew older, and that yawning piece of the puzzle stretched out wide, and wider still, until it felt like someone could stick their fist through my middle, and see their wriggling fingers through the other side, grudging fear shook the foundation of my make believe world. I was not invincible, and no matter how much I kicked, screamed, slapped, and bit, happiness would not be cheapened by my family's moldy money.
My grandpa used to tell me that happiness was kind of like a classy lady, chaste and impervious, and it would forever remain untouched, especially by the superfluous Truscott fortune. He called it the Truscott curse. Privilege is fine in moderation, but get too much and it can feel like you're trapped in a snow globe. Sure, it's pretty, ideal, and only blizzards when you choose to shake the shit out of the thing, but it's too easy, too perfect, too predictable. I understood why grandpa blew his brains out. He put on his favorite cashmere robe, and ripped the trigger to Pacchierotti. I think he died with a smile on his face, but there's no way of telling because the remnants of his face looked like a pile of minced meat.
I don't blame him. Honestly, I've found that the only way to bare my insufferable life is to dilute it. Drugs are a nice avenue, but fucking, God, fucking feels a whole hell of a lot better. I guess it sets me apart from my family. While they prefer a deadening disconnection from reality, I want to feel alive. When you're fucking, there's that animalistic connection--warm, trembling flesh, those raw, guttural sounds, that lip-rounding, toe-curling, stomach churning, mind numbing release... Yeah, fucking is the way to go. No offense to Papa Truscott, but I'd rather kill myself with a show stopping orgasm than bite a bullet.
Fucking is what defines me. I'm sure if you stripped away my layers, shucked them back until you reached my essence or whatever the fuck it's called, there'd be this smoldering orb of unadulterated sexual energy, no joke. If you're into sentimental bullshit, I guess you'd call my passion an art form.
I just finished up with Janice. She's lying on my bed, already half-asleep. I'm sitting by the bay window, looking at the moon, and puffing on a cigarette. You know how there's that nasty crash after a drug binge that almost makes you want to say screw this fix to begin with? I get the equivalent right after sex; I like to call it the anti-fuck. My nerves itch, and my stomach feels like it wants to eat itself, maybe puke. Usually I'd throw my last lay out of bed, and pursue a new one, but tonight is different. It's probably because the moon looks particularly close, like I could easily lasso it in and touch it, maybe even mount the damn thing and ride it off into space. I close my eyes and bask in the pale embers. The moon is my only comfort, and tonight it tells me something will change. Does that sound stupid, or what? I let myself soak it in because I know it won't last, and then light another cigarette.
School is a joke. It's just a social networking watering hole for the succeeding uppercrust. We will all be accepted into prominent colleges, whether or not our academic records and test scores are any indication. More often than not, our parents are alumni of said prospective colleges, and have cut the institutes beefy checks to fund new dormitories or departments. We'll earn degrees, but they'll be as meaningless as blue ribbons or Girl Scout badges because in the end, we'll have jumped through all those hoops to earn our respective parents bragging rights at their social networking watering holes.
Seaview Preparatory School is the biggest joke of all. It's the Ivy League of private schools, and a single year of tuition could buy you a house or two depending on the real estate. The school is surrounded by impossibly high stone walls, and a towering wrought iron gate at the center. The school itself looks like a fortress, complete with vines snaking down the sides, and intertwined with the intricate trelliswork. We've got all the standard school amenities, and then some.
Social footings are doled out based on family net worth, and guess who's king of the jungle? That's right, baby, yours truly. Fortunately, I could give a rat's ass about the pre-established food chain, call me secure or whatever. I know a couple of people that would beg me to bleed them out with leeches (or much worse for that matter) just to have a taste of my life for one day. Doesn't that notion make you absolutely sick?
I'm sitting in Mrs. Hershing's class right now. We're supposed to be typing up reports on our school issued laptops. I'm in the far right corner, and Oliver's somewhere in front. We both look like we're diligently at work, but we're really chatting.
SmokinOken: Have you heard the news?
Truscott: If by news you mean William Bailey walking in on Dean Pollock giving it to Mrs. Hershing up the ass, then yes.
SmokinOken: Ew, Jesus effing Christ! When?
Truscott: Yawn. Last Tuesday, Oken. It's practically antique. Are you going to tell me this news, or should I spare myself the boredom and gouge my own eyeballs out?
SmokinOken: Fuck, Lilly, will you please take a Quaalude already? For the sake of humanity! Is Aunt Flow getting ready to make her monthly visit, or did you just wake up bitchier than usual? LOL.
Truscott: …
SmokinOken: Right. So the news percolating around campus is that our new arrival will be making her grand entrance this week. A little someone by the name of Miley Stewart.
Truscott: Miley Stewart… why does that name sound familiar?
SmokinOken: Because she's only like Miss Virginity '08 and spokes girl for all things good and pure. She was on the cover of Teen Queen, Teen Vogue, Teen People, Sweetie Magazine, and Heartbeat. She had that big spread on values, morals, and the importance of saving herself, blah, blah, snoooore.
Truscott: I remember. How fucking precious. At least she's forthright about being a tease.
SmokinOken: LOL. The news gets better. There's a couple of guys wagering on who can get into her pants first. The pot is huge. It sounds like something right up your alley.
Truscott: I don't know…
SmokinOken: Oh, come on, Truscott! Don't get mad, ok? The truth is… I've already laid big money on you. You can't let me down! My pride and manliness is riding on this bet. Please, please, please?
Truscott: Oliver, you presumptuous bitch! Why don't you just sign yourself up?
SmokinOken: Puh-lease! You and I both know that I don't stand a fucking chance.
Truscott: I'll think about it. Shit. Hershing's coming. TTYL.