Fuck. I have no fucking career. I have a degree and like so many others of my generation it’s most productive use so far is to keep my soda from staining the coffee table. Instead, I work in a bar. No ordinary bar, mind you. It happens to be one of those snappy
Previously these women were the same tame bunch who snottily commented on our un chic wine selection, while protectively holding their boyfriends/husbands/sugar daddy’s hand. They sit in their thousand dollar outfits, in the VIP section tapping their perfectly manicured hands , and hoping the that the air conditioning units don’t ruin their $300 coifs, all the while watching like lionesses over their men for fear of them finding a younger, prettier, and more physically endowed model, because if that happens she’ll have to shop at Dress Barn and have her roots touched up at Supercuts. That is, until she finds a new man.