The lobby is colder than Ellen DeGeneres while envisioning Jonah Hill’s penis.
My hands resemble a Gorn’s scaly exterior. (Yeah, I’m a nerd. Get over it. I’ve had intercourse, so I get a pass. Shut up.)
The hotel, much like my writing “career”, is currently lifeless. I’ve made five Canadian dollars delivering a single case of beer to a couple of burly
Sons of Anarchy wannabes guys, one of whom ran straight to the window to gaze upon the all-powerful Falls while the other looked him up and down and remarked,
“Well, we have the day free, the room is paid for and the booze is already cold… let’s get this party started! I want to do stuff that would make Jake Gyllenhaal and Heath Ledger blush!”
To which his companion replied,
“Heath’s not blushing, man. He’s dead! And the bellguy is still here, you nut!”
Yep. Of course, it goes without saying that I was eager to get the hell out of there. Not because my guests were gay, of course but because I know my place. (For the record: Gay guests are always funnier, more polite and cooler than straight travelers. And I’m willing to accept payment from anyone, while deciding if they’re blog-worthy, of course.)
And so Burly Guy #1 handed over my gratuity – while grinning and laughing boisterously – and I headed back to the
walk-in cooler lobby.
And now I’m sitting here once more, kids, frozen to my seat and reflecting on my life as a writer. It seems every writer in my orbit has landed an agent or a deal these days while I continue to toil in obscurity. Oh well, it could always be worse. I could be this pathetic bastard…
I’m out of here, kids, I’m going somewhere warmer. Like Siberia.
See you in the walk-in cooler…