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Found.
Lost again – because who can resist following Princess Jasmine to see her pet tiger.
And I was only allowed one souvenir that fell within the absurdly low-price range.
Honestly…my parents weren’t really that cheap – may they rest in peace.
We were just that poor.
They were overworked, underpaid, pretending to afford middle-class bullshit, type of people. They had an ongoing inside joke where they referred to our family as “The Griswolds”, which I totally get now, but didn’t at the time – I mean why would I, I was just a kid.
The ugly truth of the situation was the only reason we even got to go Disney World in the first place was because my dad won some salesman contest at the Mercedes dealership, he’d dedicated most of his adult existence to.
I learned early in life two principles I think have gotten me pretty fucking far.
Commission gigs and serving jobs both suck ass.
Doesn’t matter how “nice” the place is.
They don’t pay you enough, more often than not they don’t see you as good enough, and you’ll never be special enough to not be replaceable.
That’s why I’ve never worked at either type of place.
You wanna know what does pay?
Teaching your rich prep school classmates – that are only your classmates because you’re a scholarship student there to make the demographics look good – how to hide their cocaine and sex addictions from their parents. It was almost like tax fraud for teens. Easy shit to do when you’re great at math. Later I did it for college assholes who didn’t want their actual accountants spilling their tea to the parents who were funding their orgy swamp parties and yacht raves.
Not that I was invited to the activities themselves.
In fact, the one time I was invited to a yacht party – post grad might I add, at the exclusive Contes De La Couronne Yacht Club – I was nearly assaulted. A near assault that allowed the man who would later turn from a fairy tale daydream to a night terror that has a person too terrified to ever sleep again, into my knight in shining armor.
He was charming.
Too charming.
Too…well…scripted.
No person should always know exactly what to say and when to say it.
At least not a person who has a soul and knows when to blink without looking insane as fuck.
After tucking the pen into my high, sloppy bun that’s pinned at the top of my head, I retrieve another pen that will actually be used for doodling and attempt to make a rescue search on my device. While it’s not the most high-tech – something I can finically afford yet safety wise cannot – it has the capability to look up some stuff.
When there’s service.
But given the lack of bars I’m seeing I’m gonna go ahead and guess there isn’t.
Meaning I’m stranded.
In the middle of fucking nowhere.
Outside a literal placed called Death. Canyon.
Wow.
If this isn’t every woman’s horror movie dream come true, I don’t know what is.
My caramel mocha-colored fingers prepare to refresh the search when all of a sudden, the sound of an engine pulls my dark brown eyes upward.
