Let me tell you something. Duck liver pate doesn’t help shit.

You’ve seen me, that girls that just doesn’t belong. That girl that wore heels under a pair of filthy jeans and called it classy. I’m all over this city, fancy restaurant to pretentious ass fancy restaurant with a new washed-up middle aged businessman every night. I laugh at the corny jokes he makes. I drink endless glasses of wine, and you would too if they were fucking free. I work him under the table while you wait for your overpriced French piece of shit on a golden platter. I live the life you dream about and jack off to. I am the American fucking dream.

Sometimes, I think there are better ways to get through college. I could become a tutor. I could wait tables. I could panhandle for fucksakes. There are a million and a half things I could be doing instead of this, but there’s always that one guy with his wedding band in his pocket. He’s offering me the world if I give him the night of his life. That’s a pretty slanted fucking deal, if you ask me. I don’t mind using some worthless schmuck for a free meal. For one night, I am the lover he doesn’t have to love.

Men of this caliber put you in the nicest hotel rooms imaginable. There are crystal chandeliers in the lobby, a nice cold bottle of champagne, warm towels... all of the fixings. Those soft sheets are crushed by his futile effort to please me. This asshole is conked out after fifteen minutes of aimless thrusting and my bored moans. I light up a cigarette (the maids loathe that) and take out that tiny little piece of fabric I call a shirt for emergencies like this. I’m not cuddling with that cunt; I’m finding another sad sap to call mine for the night. I’m at the bar with your boss, your father, your brother, your best friend, your husband. I’m looking for my next kill.

Yeah, honey, he’s working overtime all right. A word of advice, don’t order the duck liver pate at the restaurant he’s going to take you to as an apology.