FUCK YOU, PAY ME

I was, oh, maybe 16. He was, somewhere close to 50.

“Hey mister” I said. “I got some old stuff to sell. Won’t you buy it?” I was drunk, and trying to get drunker. He could tell by his preconceived notions about girls that wear skirts like the one I wore that night, that I liked to have fun. He wasn’t wrong.

“Well little miss, how about I buy you a beer, maybe two. Try this red pill, I’ll eat the blue. How’s a girl your age act so mature, you sure you’re not 21, or 22?”

I felt real sleepy, so I closed my eyes on the floor. The soft wrinkles of his skin felt free to let themselves in. He helped himself for 3 minutes, until he was through, then said “I gotta to kid, my name is Lou.” He found his way out, and left behind some cash. The least he could do.

Once you do something once, it gets easier the second time around. My way back to Lous shop, I found. Independence through sickness and health. I was emancipated by an otherwise untouchable wealth.