CrystalGeezer
My secret's my enzyme.
Okay...
So I'm trying to wrap up this whole Morrissey obsession thing and move on, do something with my piddly life. So knowing he might eventually be in town I wanted to deliver him one last message. Just in case. I've delivered boxes and letters and postcards and packages to previous managers, none answered.
I thought I'd try one last time.
So I drive to Beverly Hills and like a total duck out of water I park in front of Chanel and walk over to Wilshire which is what the address reads. But the entrance to the building is actually on CAMDEN and I think, "Fantastic, I'll never make it to Camden, this is pretty darn close." Like the Forum on Manchester is the closest I've gotten to Manchester. Anyway, I go inside. Now I consider myself to be somewhat young. After riding the douchebag express up to the third floor, it occurs to me that this place is run by children. There couldn't have been anyone over the age of 25 working there, I felt like a crazy old lady. So I hand the envelope to the manicured girl behind the space counter and she says I have to take it to the mailroom myself on the GL level. I'm sure she could've dumped it in a box and I'd be on my way, but no, I have to go to the mail room myself. So I go down there and walk down this hallway and hand it to a Jason Schwartzman doppleganger and he says "Who is this from?" and I say "It's on the back." and walk fast back down the hallway to the elevators. He pops his head out of the office and says "Are you Annie?" (My name is Amie, I get that a lot.) and I say "Yes." and he says "That's what I thought." I was so embarrassed, I felt like that creepy stalker girl who eats at the Cabo Cantina everyday hoping to see Morrissey leave his house when he lived on Sweetzer. That is so not me. Anyway, I wait to get on the elevator and mailroom dbag catches up with me and says "Are you sure we represent him?" and I say "Yes." I hope they do anyway.
I decide to not take the elevator with him and the cast of Entourage, but wait for another and a sweet boy rides with me holding a plate of food. I say "Must be lunch time." and he says awkwardly, "Yep." So finally I get to leave and I can't get my ass back to the ghetto fast enough when as I'm crossing Rodeo Drive, my car in sight and almost out of there, I slip on a puddle of gasoline and fall to one knee in the middle of the intersection. 
The only thing that made the entire exchange perfect was that as I was getting into my car, a very lispy gay hairdresser (He gave his business card to a lady before we crossed the intersection) and his female friend flag me down and he yells "I saw you slip on the gas in the crosswalk, I DID THE SAME EXACT THING!!!!"
I should've just gone to the post office and got a stamp.
So I'm trying to wrap up this whole Morrissey obsession thing and move on, do something with my piddly life. So knowing he might eventually be in town I wanted to deliver him one last message. Just in case. I've delivered boxes and letters and postcards and packages to previous managers, none answered.
I thought I'd try one last time.So I drive to Beverly Hills and like a total duck out of water I park in front of Chanel and walk over to Wilshire which is what the address reads. But the entrance to the building is actually on CAMDEN and I think, "Fantastic, I'll never make it to Camden, this is pretty darn close." Like the Forum on Manchester is the closest I've gotten to Manchester. Anyway, I go inside. Now I consider myself to be somewhat young. After riding the douchebag express up to the third floor, it occurs to me that this place is run by children. There couldn't have been anyone over the age of 25 working there, I felt like a crazy old lady. So I hand the envelope to the manicured girl behind the space counter and she says I have to take it to the mailroom myself on the GL level. I'm sure she could've dumped it in a box and I'd be on my way, but no, I have to go to the mail room myself. So I go down there and walk down this hallway and hand it to a Jason Schwartzman doppleganger and he says "Who is this from?" and I say "It's on the back." and walk fast back down the hallway to the elevators. He pops his head out of the office and says "Are you Annie?" (My name is Amie, I get that a lot.) and I say "Yes." and he says "That's what I thought." I was so embarrassed, I felt like that creepy stalker girl who eats at the Cabo Cantina everyday hoping to see Morrissey leave his house when he lived on Sweetzer. That is so not me. Anyway, I wait to get on the elevator and mailroom dbag catches up with me and says "Are you sure we represent him?" and I say "Yes." I hope they do anyway.
I decide to not take the elevator with him and the cast of Entourage, but wait for another and a sweet boy rides with me holding a plate of food. I say "Must be lunch time." and he says awkwardly, "Yep." So finally I get to leave and I can't get my ass back to the ghetto fast enough when as I'm crossing Rodeo Drive, my car in sight and almost out of there, I slip on a puddle of gasoline and fall to one knee in the middle of the intersection. The only thing that made the entire exchange perfect was that as I was getting into my car, a very lispy gay hairdresser (He gave his business card to a lady before we crossed the intersection) and his female friend flag me down and he yells "I saw you slip on the gas in the crosswalk, I DID THE SAME EXACT THING!!!!"I should've just gone to the post office and got a stamp.
Don't even get me started on Twin Peaks.
