Circles within circles
Ed. note: while jasmine is off TAKING THE BAR, she's rounded up some forces to keep the readers happy while she's gone. enjoy!
It's a quarter past three, and I really should be inside this library snug in my seat memorizing dates, cases, names, files, faces, and places... but I'm not. Instead, I'm out here with my hair pulled back in my black Gucci glasses, matching Capri slacks, stiletto's, a teeny tiny Motley Crue tank, and... of course... a little handbag; giving myself cancer and drinking Red Bull... or possibly not. It's not an ordinary cigarette; mind you, but one of those super-stylish "Virginia Slims." I've always considered them the Maserati of tobacco products. You see, they're long, sleek, and skinny. I suppose they could also be considered aerodynamic, and they fit perfectly into that stylish metal case that was given to me by my godmother, Gina, last Christmas. Plus I'm a slave to fashion and a sucker, to say the least, I was duped... hoodwinked... bamboozled into believing a mature woman in the know smokes these disgusting things. I'm also convinced had I lived in the 1920's, I'd probably have worn long black gloves and carried one of those fancy holders; so phallic. Come to think of it. I've always set my own fashions... followed the beat of my own drummer... maybe I'll bring 'em back, who knows?
I'll consider it next time I'm chilling at the club vying for Tag's attention.
Fuck, the funniest part about this post is that I don't even smoke. It's all show, glitz, and glam. Thank you m'am, yes I suppose I'll have another. No matches, no problem, I'm covered. Here in my stylish Hermes purse (no, it's not a knockoff) I always carry this platinum lighter I found in the Hotel Lobby over at the Fitzpatrick. Sometimes when I'm bored, and my over-caffeinated, shaky hands need something to hold, I'll take it out and nervously flick it on and off... fumble it about... like Katherine Hepburn after 3 lines of Coke. Ok, that's bad... my apologies.
You know every cigarette I throw away - upon tossing it into some empty corner, some unmarked grave, to live out the remainder of it's days, silent and alone, I think how similar they are to men. Think about it... at the time, you really need one... and the longer you wait, the bitchier and more desperate you get. When you finally manage to find one, you hold it and breath it and suck it and bump it until you're completely satisfied and can't stand the sight of it so you discard it. Then, like clockwork, an hour later you need another. They're all the same: single serving, addictive, small, and disposable. Sometimes, every now and then, one will burn you... but the pain eventually passes and nary a mark or stain lasts.
That reminds me. The other day while shopping in Soho I ran into this cute guy who looked like Tad Hamilton. He claimed he knew Topher Grace's cousin's former roommate. Four degrees huh? Not too shabby. Anyhow, his name was Alex and he offered to buy me a latte. I figured sure why not, if he's buying. Anyhow, he goes on to tell me with a toothy smile that he spied me 2 blocks away and couldn't pass up the opportunity to say "hi" and that he thought I was pretty and would better like to know me. I politely told him I've been really stressed, what with preparing for this test, and worrying about the state of my blog, and eager to find out whom Bush will appoint judge. I said look, "I just don't have time." He said he'd wait until after exam day and when I get an "A" he'd buy me a steak... no, not a steak, a filet. I said; "back up, wait-a-minute... an 'A?'" He said, "yeah, an 'A.'" As in "above 97 percent?" As in, "Jazz, you're a smart, classy girl and like a doctor delivering a baby, you'll smack this exam square in its ass." I snickered and asked him where he thought I attended school. He then answered... get this... Stuyvesant High School. I laughed even harder and said "What the fuck? How old do you think I am?" He's like, "How old ARE you?" I answered, " Do you realize I just graduated law school and this exam I'm referring to is the BAR?" With a puzzled look he then replied... "Well you looked familiar, like someone I know that goes there. Plus you look young. Maybe it's your height." He followed this with, "Wow, I feel dumb. Uh... so what do you say girl, are we still on?" I'd already wasted way too much time on this chump. Five minutes in fact had forever slipped away and as we all know, as my dad always says: "Time is money, honey." I curtsied and turned away, said bon-voyage and goodbye and thanks. I told him I had to go... it was late and I had to get home and return some videotapes... oh, and feed my fish, whose name, coincidentally, is "Alex."
The moral of my little tale is this. Men, like cigarettes, are a much-needed commodity. They can provide fleeting pleasure, and a quick escape from the day-to-day grind. However if the need arises, they can be crushed underfoot, discarded, left behind and forgotten. Especially when they're foolish and make passes under false assumptions. Also, it helps when you actually KNOW said celebrities not their twice-removed hair-stylist's friends. I don't wanna hear that. Instead, I'd like to hear, "Jasmine, would you like to meet _________? He'll be sitting near us, center court, at the Garden." Oh, knowing Gavin Degraw definitely helps, it's an immediate in. And finally, no, despite what I wrote, I don't really smoke... unless I'm drinking or stressed or it's after 9 am or if the moon is full or when ......