Inaugural entries. The bane of my existence. What's a 20-year-old anti-social guy still living with his parents to do?
I guess I should start by telling all zero of you a little about me, right? First things first, look to the left. Good, that covers a big chunk of it.
I live in the Hamptons, which is twenty times more glamorous on paper than it is in reality. In the minds of everyone and their mother, the Hamptons are the playland of the rich and famous, a gorgeous place where everyone is sipping expensive champagne in their Sunday best while the butler throws another brick of money into the fire. What nobody seems to realize is that this is an exclusive club of very few people, and even they only stay here during the summer, god forbid they deal with the winter here when they can't go to the beach. The majority of the people here are everyday people who just want to go about their business without having to deal with rich, stuck-up assholes. This is impossible.
Then the summer ends, and the rich leave, and the town becomes extremely, extremely boring. At least during the summer, one can go to the beach, or go somewhere else and talk about how much one hates rich people just loud enough so that they can hear you. Even then, those are pretty much your only options, besides, of course, getting ass-over-teakettle wasted. There's a bar or club every 50 feet or so, and a liquor store in between, which makes getting extremely drunk very easy for those over 21 or with fake IDs. The rest of us are basically screwed, and have to deal with staying home, for the most part.
Don't get me wrong, I do go outside. I have to work, after all. I also have a girlfriend, so that's another way out of my house. However, she's 21, and I'm... well, not. I blame my overly strong moral barometer, inherited from my police officer father, for not allowing me to go with her when she goes out.
And this is what brings me to write depressing rants that nobody will ever read at 4 AM. I would say it was sad, but I guess any outlet's a good one.
I'm usually not this somber. Probably the season change.
I guess I should start by telling all zero of you a little about me, right? First things first, look to the left. Good, that covers a big chunk of it.
I live in the Hamptons, which is twenty times more glamorous on paper than it is in reality. In the minds of everyone and their mother, the Hamptons are the playland of the rich and famous, a gorgeous place where everyone is sipping expensive champagne in their Sunday best while the butler throws another brick of money into the fire. What nobody seems to realize is that this is an exclusive club of very few people, and even they only stay here during the summer, god forbid they deal with the winter here when they can't go to the beach. The majority of the people here are everyday people who just want to go about their business without having to deal with rich, stuck-up assholes. This is impossible.
Then the summer ends, and the rich leave, and the town becomes extremely, extremely boring. At least during the summer, one can go to the beach, or go somewhere else and talk about how much one hates rich people just loud enough so that they can hear you. Even then, those are pretty much your only options, besides, of course, getting ass-over-teakettle wasted. There's a bar or club every 50 feet or so, and a liquor store in between, which makes getting extremely drunk very easy for those over 21 or with fake IDs. The rest of us are basically screwed, and have to deal with staying home, for the most part.
Don't get me wrong, I do go outside. I have to work, after all. I also have a girlfriend, so that's another way out of my house. However, she's 21, and I'm... well, not. I blame my overly strong moral barometer, inherited from my police officer father, for not allowing me to go with her when she goes out.
And this is what brings me to write depressing rants that nobody will ever read at 4 AM. I would say it was sad, but I guess any outlet's a good one.
I'm usually not this somber. Probably the season change.