Friday morning, to my surprise, I was abruptly awakened by my close friend, Sandy. She towered over me as I shuffled in bed, holding what looked like to be two plane tickets.
"We're going to L.A. in two hours! Get up, Richard! Get up!"
As she mentioned the word L.A., I vomited a tad in my mouth. I had been to L.A. before, but it always ended with me sobbing and complaining about the heat, traffic, countless airheads, arrogant rich kids, and the air that looks like my Mother's kitchen after she burned the Thanksgiving turkey for the fifth year straight. Regardless, I accepted Sandy's offer, packed my bag full of every Hawaiian shirt I owned, and zipped off to the airport. The worst part about flying these days is definitely the mandatory manual internal inspection, or what they like to call, a body cavity search. After losing my self-esteem in the BC search room, we boarded the plane.
Upon arriving, all I could think was, "Does Richard live in L.A. now? Will I find him on my vacation with Sandy?" Unfortunately, I never spotted him while in L.A. The main reason why Sandy wanted to go L.A. was because she had called in reservations (about 6 months ago) to get a table at this club, the Slur House. When we arrived, we waited in line for around 4 hours, finally getting in as the sun went down. Sandy and I were led to our table and ordered drinks. In honor of Richard Madison, I got a tall glass of milk. I was immediately an outcast because of my choice of drink, since the main purpose at the club was to leave with wobbly legs and a slurred speech (that's their motto). Although Sandy was having a ball, I was miserable. With every gulp of milk that I drank, a feeling of worthlessness and heartache came over me. How am I supposed to keep going through life, knowing that my only true companion is out there somewhere. Once Sandy had a case of the sloppy legs and slurred speech, we headed back to the airport and flew back home. I believe the most time anyone should ever spend in L.A. consecutively should be in accordance with how arrogant and ill behaved they are. If you're a down right good soul, then NEVER, I repeat NEVER go to Los Angeles. However, if you’re the promiscuous, evil kind of person, L.A. is your calling.
Once I got back to my apartment, I immediately hit the sack. I will soon have more concerning Richard Madison and how exactly you readers out there can help me find him. Have a good week!
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