Kristy
I am a strong, independent, confident, intelligent woman!
Let me reiterate, I am an intelligent woman. I even wrote my final thesis on 'The diminishing role of true objectivity within the confines of a media driven subjective society' for heaven sake!
So why, why oh why oh fucking why... was I here?
I'll tell you why. Because despite the fact I am aforementioned intelligent woman of substance, I was still unable to get a job as real journalist. Girl from South Africa, graduated top of her class with big ambitions of being the next Diane Sawyer moves to America to live the big dream- only the dream quickly turned into a nightmare.
The only job I could get was writing for a dime- a- dozen celebrity gossip mag, the kind where "Taylor swift in sex change scandal," makes the headlines. Of course the fact we had no actual evidence to back up the claim that Taylor was born with a willy, wasn't an issue. Why let that inconvenient little thing called truth get in the way of a good story, hey?
And now I was here, in uncomfortably cold Aspen, inhaling the cancerous fumes of an inconsiderate bearded man and wearing my roommate's one-size-too-small heels because I don't own a pair. I hadn't thought to buy any, since I imagined that I would be running through war-torn Syria, dodging explosions and reporting on the plight of refugees or something meaningful like that.
I've never understood them either, heels... torture devices masquerading as fashion items sent up from the fiery pits of hell itself. Ok, that was a bit dramatic, but I was feeling very dramatic right now. I was having a bad day. I had just been handed my worst ever work assignment, and that's saying a lot since my last one had been an expose on the dangers of bird poo facials. True story. Ask Victoria Beckam. She's a huge fan of smearing nightingale's droppings on her face... God, I hate myself for even knowing that.
The job in question was covering the latest season of "My Prince Charming," staring Mr. Twat-head and thirteen other women who were all clearly insane. Because no women who had been liberated from her quaint 1950s kitchen and stripped of her baking trays of warm goodies for hubby would go on a show like that. Now, I'm not saying we should all be burning our bra's, not shaving our armpits and beating up men, but please, have some dignity. Don't chase after a man with thirteen other chicks. I cringed just thinking about it. But that still wasn't the worst part. Because the real cherry on top, the big, fat juicy red cherry was that the man I had just been sharing a lift with, was none other than Mr. Charming.
Prior to meeting Henley Kipling the second (Yes, that is his real name) I'd already come to the conclusion that he must be a bit of a dick. But now that I had seen him in the flesh, I could tell that he was more of a double-dick-deluxe. And he smelt.
The stench of smoke and alcohol, cologne and stale women's perfume mixed together and wafted out of every one of his pores. I'd almost asphyxiated in the confines of the small lift. I watched him carefully as he took a Gatorade from one of his many minions and downed it. Some of the blue liquid trickled out of his mouth and a few drops deposited themselves on his shirt and beard. Classy.
How the hell was this the- what had my editor so eloquently said - the guy who could charm the jock strap off a straight man?
He looked more like a wild -man from Papua New Guinea who had survived a plane crash and had been living off tree bark and insect larvae for the last ten years and had had no access to a razor blade, or soap.
Maybe once he'd taken a weed -whacker to his face, he might look different. Still, a man that smelt like he did, and at this time of the day... not charming.
"You want some?" Suddenly he stuck the bottle of Gatorade in my face and I realized that I must have been staring.
"No thanks." I said defiantly and placed a hand on a hip.
He looked me up and down for a moment or two and then a slow, small languid smile broke out across his face. "Suit yourself, babe."
"Babe!" I said loudly as he turned his back on me and walked away with the kind of arrogant swagger that comes from being born with an entire silver cutlery set in your mouth. To top the whole display off nicely, he crunched the bottle in his left hand and tossed it to his minion.
"Cheers babe." Mr. Henley Twat Rotten Kipling Shitling the Second said as he rounded the corner and disappeared.
"Bastard." I whispered under my breath and followed after him. I was meant to be meeting with him and 'his people' now. Men like him always have 'people.' Those poor suckers, maybe my job wasn't so bad after all.
I walked speedily down the passage after him muttering to myself about the general injustice of my situation when he suddenly stopped. He turned slowly. He folded his arms, he looked at me and he smiled again.
"I've got a meeting now, but if you want to hook up later..." a glint flickered in his eyes, "...you can get my number from her." He pointed down the corridor to his Gatorade minion. The woman in question looked like a frozen robot waiting for her next command.
"Oh. My. God!" I said loudly. I could not believe the sheer audacity of this man. The unspeakable, terrible, inappropriateness of him. The arrogance and the I'm- so –fucking- hot-I- can- sleep- with- any women- I- want vibe that this douche bag had going on.
"I can assure you," I said moving towards him, "I do not want to...aahhhhaaa!"
"Shit!" I just managed as I felt my high heel get stuck in a grate on the floor. My leg wobbled, my body swayed, my leg shook violently and then...
BAM!
I went down. Hard. My knees connected first and just as my hands and face were about to smash into the hard ground, I tucked my head in and attempted some kind of ninja style roll. Bad idea. Very bad.
My body started to flip over but was suddenly yanked back by the heel that was still caught in the grate. My skirt flipped up, my one leg flopped forward, my back fell into the ground and I lay there in some horrific version of the splits.
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