...do 23 days in the fanciest, easiest conditions the local slammer could provide if you knew that at the end you'd be going home to:
-- A cozy little mansion in Beverly Hills;
-- A Bentley, a Mercedes and various fancy rides;
-- Non-stop parties;
-- A no-limit line of credit;
-- The freedom to go wherever the hell you want;
-- All the sex, drugs and rock & roll you can stand?
You can bet the fleshy parts of your posterior I would!
I wouldn't even ask for that much. Y'all can leave out the drugs....
I'm feeling as if I'm in jail, on some bizarre variety of work-release program. No matter what I do during the day, it's back to the cell at night, where I sleep -- alone -- on an uncomfortable bed.
We've all been told that wealth doesn't bring happiness, that those supposedly so-in-love couples are wrangling, miserable beasts at home. I'm not sure I believe that, but I'd love to give that high life a shot and see if I could adapt to it.
Never mind that I'd be the same guy I am now, only with my bills paid when they should be and perhaps a little more play time.
I don't have the gene -- or privileged background -- to feel the urge to live high. Just let me enjoy a little better scene than I do now, please.
What a dull person I am.
1 day ago