I Wanna Get Back To Paris!
(Without Her This Time.)
When last we left
He was all over the telephone, sorting out (and paying for) The Extended Stay In The ‘City of Light’ with his new Love.
As soon as I got everything sorted, settled and paid for, Ela telephoned her two kids: A daughter and a son—Bout 9 and 12 respectively.
It was kind of a ‘conference call’ from what I could glean, but only hearing Ela’s words, and watching her begin to get all misty-eyed and then break down in tears, I could only surmise:
This could, in no way, shape, matter, nor form bode well…
She hung up and through her crying eyes, announced,
“I have to go home.
“My children are distraught. They expected me home tomorrow, not in four days.”
“You wanna see ‘distraught?’ Look at me!”
Now, mind you, I really did not give a shit about the six grand it had just cost me to sort out the extended stay at our hotel (Since I no longer had a reservation and they claimed to be booked solid they broke it off in my ass—ditto Air France—at least six grand all in, but who’s counting at this point?
I could always go back to ‘The Sandbox’ and make Six-Grand in two Weeks, but that wasn’t really the point, was it?
I wanted MORE TIME with HER!
We spent that final night under a bridge across from Notre Dame, drinking wine and holding hands.
First thing next morning, I grabbed a cab and took her to the airport.
As we were waiting in-line to get her boarding pass I made an incredibly stupid decision:
“I am flying with you—to Springfield,” I blurted out.
(Yet more money down that drain)
“You sure?” She asked.
Sorted out my new plane ride logistics (And ass-raped once again by Air France)
We got our boarding passes, our carry-ons and boarded the plane.
What the Fuck had I just done?
I was certain I would pay for this folly, and probably much sooner than later.
Thirty minutes passed and we were Wheels-Up and non-stop to New-Fucking-Jersey (To catch our connection to Springfield)
(I like to think myself an intelligent, worldly man, but this. THIS was a bone-headed, stupid move)
Trust me, Gentle Readers, it gets worse.
To Be Continued…
Added Value To Accentuate My Point:
(This song will become more relevant in upcoming chapters)
And try to guess who stopped giving a shit first.
You have only two options–these are easy odds
Not like betting The Ponies, or Roulette. Or A Crap Shoot.
Go ahead: Put your Money On The Table–Take A Shot.
I love You Sheryl–Always Have–Always shall.
(Even if you do resemble some Crack Whores I have called ‘Friend.’)
Hey! Wanna Try A Different ‘Lance’?
That Armstrong One Was Lame as Fuk–Just Sayin’.
But if he/she/it makes you happy…
Rock on Girl!
I have a ‘real-life’ Cheryl (Yeah, with a ‘C’) Cheryl story, but if I tell it, she will track me down and kill the fuck outta me. So I won’t tell it unless I get drunk out of my mind.
Which could happen at any time…..
I know all about that.
Too much in fact.
And I have the scars to prove it.