I walked into a hotel yesterday needing something to wear because of a disgusting accident.

* make us famous

Don’t ask me what happened, that’s not important, make something up. As I’ve been doing for years I found my way to the nearest fancy hotel and told a story about a lost coat. I scrunched the corners of my eyes to indicate warmth and trailed my sentences to indicate shared class and experiences. I described my item as, “black, about to here, business casual, YOU know.” This has never failed to glean me a garment, usually much nicer than anything I would actually buy.

The young lady at the counter asked me for a brand. I said it wasn’t a known one, as I had shopped second-hand. She asked for a lining color. Pale, of course. Where EXACTLY had I lost it? I wasn’t sure, I had been all over the bar.

Everyone thinks they’re a good liar. Most people are wrong. With friends I am terrible. I love my friends, should not tell them untruths, and so stutter all false words. But strangers, functionaries of mini power? Oh frabjous fuck you. Which is why I was shocked that this pony-tailed grackle of a person didn’t buy it. She radioed! the honcho of cleaning, and kept her eyes on me as she related my criteria. No.

Have all you fuckers been at my trough? Have you ruined my small gleeful theft from the drunk and forgetful? Or is the the start of a slide, a diminishment? Am I real Housewife of the Demimonde now, a gristled sienna mockery of the charm I used to exploit? Is it bag of oranges time?