What killed me was the way she walked. She would pick up her feet like a cat in a litter box not wanting to step in its piss. Like a fawn trotting. It made her ass shake in that sheer little Wilma Flintstone dress and she knew it. She was “bubbly.” Friendly. She dropped a piece of ice and the host said it’s great to watch you bend over and she giggled like it was 1962 and no one ever got sued. She laughed in a way that let you pretend. You know she’s fucking some yoga instructor or some Russian guy for money but you can’t remember these things like you can’t remember the alphabet backwards when a cop’s shining a klieg light in your eyes.
It wasn’t a face that launched a thousand ships, it was an ass and that prefeminist giggle. You start thinking shit, I wish I had money. I wouldn’t dare get near that unless I was leaning out the window of a very expensive car. Guys want to be “producers” so they can get girls like this. You spend enough time slaying filthy Echo Park hipster ass that you forget, a couple zip codes away the girls look like on TV and charm you like pros. She lives in a West Hollywood apartment with healthy plants and a soft bed covered in fluffy white sheets and comforters that her little dog somehow never gets hair on and the toilet never breaks. She lives in a world out of Bed Bath and Beyond catalogs. A clean safe world you can never touch. Maybe she’s boring, but you see her pick up her feet and do her little fawn walk and her bubble ass is swinging left and right and every nerve in your being is screaming out that you have to have her and you can’t. It’s enough to ruin you for these swart flabby girls you meet, their crude daguerrotype faces like out of some old book about poverty. A perfect girl. A thousand ships launching into a million hours of soul crushing work and game and hustle and for a second you get it.
delicioustacos 
This post makes me think on this repeatewd on a loop ad aeternum: http://www.youtuberepeater.com/watch?v=8jL0vy2YaDg
In time, you will forget her and renew your interest in said chic art-type/non-artist Echo-Parkian hoo-wers.
Chad Kultgen’s new book just came out…I hope you’re busy typing away at a manuscript so you can try to strike while the genre (sex-laden, introspective misogynist-with-a-heart-of-gold talks about conquests and life in LA) is still hot. You’re a better writer and more charismatic than Kultgen.
I know the type. Of this world, yet passing through our common vulgar miseries like a ghost. Untouched. We hope that by laying hands on her she will return the embrace and thereby lift us away from the land of breaking toilets and bleeding bank accounts.
That said, I always wondered what Jay Gatsby saw in Daisy Buchanan. Sidewalks like a white ladder to heaven in the crisp October night, a green light at the end of the pier. I smile to think that Fitzgerald’s Great American novel, which so many either love or hate, is essentially a cautionary tale on the Price of Pedestalizing the Pussy.
Daisy did inspire Gatsby to become rich, though. As another masterpiece of American art reminds us, “First you get the money, then you get the power, then you get the women.”
You will never lose good women chasing money, but you will always lose good money chasing women.
I love that the wisdom of F. Scott and Chris Rock are both here, side by side.
Poetry my ass. This was the faggiest update on this blog.