I had finished running after all those damn, snooty, posh-ass directors. Yeah, so I’m a runner and after every damn shift I end up smelling like coffee, you have any complaints? You can take it up with me if you want, I’m sure my fists would like to talk to you.
I glance at my dishevelled reflection, my scruffy, dirty blonde hair falling around my face in a slump. Wow, I looked dead, like Wesley Snipes – Blade dead. But I was still content to drown my sorrows in the dark brown liquid that had been my salvation for so many years. Be it Whiskey, Sherry, Bourbon, Beer. I don’t mind, they all taste like dog piss.
I push my hair back with some gel, revealing my pale face and dull green eyes. I remember when I actually looked forward to the next day that I would be catering for the stars. Little did I know I would be a lackey, a donkey trailing around after some fucking nobody trying to make a quick buck out of the ‘latest book or game,’ I mean, do you know who directed half the films you watch? If it’s not Steven Spielberg or Baz Luhrmann, you don’t wanna know.
I look at myself a moment longer before dragging my sorry ass down to the local bar. If I get drunk and end up sleeping with some random person again at least I’ll be too gone to remember fuck-all. As for my sexuality, I don’t care anymore. Boy, girl, boy-girl, boy dressed as girl? It’s all the same to me. The world’s a blur when you’re pissed.
My name’s Lucian Lacroix and I’m Hollywood’s latest screw up.