It's a shitty spring day here in Manhattan and I'm being as difficult as humanly possible. First I asked for a cronut for breakfast and someone actually brought me one. Then I asked for some Xanax and they brought that too (a. full. bottle.) but I didn't take it, I'm going to save it and use to poison the Devil tonight during dinner.
And then I won't have to listen to his endless instructions on how I should act while we're here.
Stop rolling your eyes, Bridget.
Get your feet off the chair.
Sign here. And here. And here. Initial here.
Wait here.
Come with me.
On your knees.
Stop crying.
And then I get some more champagne and maybe a trip to FAO to soothe my frazzled nerves because twelve. Because I didn't want to fly, not into a major city known for acts of terrorism waged within its limits while there are whole planeloads of people missing in the world, not without at least even Ben to be a buffer between us but it's only two nights (of crying) and then we get to fly back home to safety and I can put away the drugs and the poor little gutter rat turned rich princess act he loves so much and go back to who I am in real life because this ain't it and whoever thought it was a good idea to trot me around the country using what was supposed to become my money to fund ventures that I don't even understand is cracked.
He tells me the return is worth it, not to worry, he's good at this. He tells me he sacrificed being good at anything mostly in his personal life for success in his finances and I believe him, truly I do. I countered that I sacrificed everything for love and he laughed in my face.
You're a witch, he says.
If that were true you'd already be dead. I tell him and drink myself blind before lunch.
But hey, we're making money and Jesus Christ is he ever happy about that.
