New Year's Evil

I'm at a bar without anyone. A drunken girl spits drunken slurs at me- I'm on TV y'know. I obviously don't pay the required homage as a few moments later she adds: A lot. I sip my water. Usher sang for me y'know. I blow cigar smoke into the air. And I'm a college lecturer. I repeat these statements to the people surrounding me with deep sarcasm, none of them seem anything other than impressed. I sigh and suck in more smoke; maybe that was slightly harsh of me but I'm not feeling too chipper. The girl asks whether she stands any chance, I shake my head and turn my back. The disenchanted get all the attention. I get introduced to a Mensa Model, a girl with a stunning figure to appparently match her IQ. How can you be a Mensa Model, I ask. I was featured in the bikini issue of the Mensa magazine, she replies. Tonight's getting way too strange for me. It is so easy to get absorbed into the spineless, into the rich and the meaningless. Earlier I've taken my friends out for dinner, a cool £350 for five of us, which the restuarant not only covered, but also threw another couple of hundred my way for doing a few card tricks. This put with the fifty I picked up in tips has made for a passable evening. You see, I don't earn real money. There is good money and there is bad money. Good money is sweated for, bled for by the hour, it is deserved. Bad money is thrown at you, passed in folded currency from handshake to clammy handshake and how softly it corrupts. Whoever said manual labour is good for the soul was right on the money.