The Maelstrom Underneath

The ladies of St. Petersburg are the gift that keeps on giving, and they couldn't let me return home without providing one final present.  My flight had been canceled due to weather.  My buddy picked me up 2 hours after he had dropped me off a Tampa International and without even having to discuss it we both said, "cigar lounge?" as our solution for what to do for the night.  So there we were on Central Avenue, smoking cigars once again.

To keep our prime-real-estate-of-a-seat outside, I had my buddy go in first to get his cigar while I sat outside and reserved our table.  But while he was in there I noticed something peculiar.  A cutesie blond I had seen previously that afternoon 7 HOURS AGO came walking out of the nextdoor bar with some guy.  She had been drinking, starting at 2PM, ON A MONDAY AFTERNOON and was still there 7 hours later.

Her and her male friend sat at the outdoor table next to me, where she began to call a friend and leave him/her a long rambling, curse-filled message that only drunk, angry girls could.  It was hilarious.  Accusations of stabbing in the back, how she wasn't trying to steal somebody's guy, and who would want to steal that guy anyway, and how dare somebody violate her trust blah blah blah.  I laughed inside because she looked a little too old to be leaving such a message, not to mention the guy seemed pained to be seen in public with her.

My buddy returned to our table with cigar in hand.  It was now my turn to pick out a stogie and as I got up I said, "You gotta see this girl."  I walked into the lounge and there was George, the smart alecky 23 year old maitre d.  I said, "have you seen the girl outside?"  He said, "Holy cow!  Look out for her!  She asked me how old I thought she was and I said '28'.  Then she yelled at me and cursed at me saying I was an ass and didn't know shit and looked like Doogie Howser!" (George was a young looking 23 year old kid).  I proceeded to the humidor, purchased a Connecticut wrapped cigar, and rejoined my friend outside.

By this time her male friend had left leaving me and my friend in the uncomfortable position of dealing with this volatile and angry woman by ourselves.  Long as she remained at her table and we didn't bother her, things should be alright.  There was just one problem.

I had been imbibing a bit myself at the airport because...well...what else is there to do at an airport? I wasn't completely gone, matter of fact I was quite sober, but I had enough booze in me to turn off any concern or worries about offending somebody that would be so easily offended. So I told my buddy at the table how this lady eviscerated poor George and then turned to the lady and ask, "Hey, how old are you?"

Visibly disturbed she said in a condescending manner, "Why?  How old do you think I am?"

George had told me previously she was 33, so I said promptly, "42, 43?"

My friend, now mentally shaking his head, immediately jumped in, "33?" as a means to calm her, but it was too late.  The drunken tart had seen red.

"OH YEAH ASSHOLE!!!???  What makes you think 43!??!!"

I said, "you look 43."

"Well, I'm not!!!  I'm 33 asswipe!"

In a brilliant backhanded-complimenting comeback I said, "Really???  It must be your clothes.  If I just look at your face, you actually do look 33, but I had to include your clothes.  You kind of dress like you're 43."

This did nothing to calm the situation.

She then lit me up over my fashion.

"Oh yeah fuckhole!?  Look at you with your stupid hat (I was wearing a fedora) and your Steva sandals.  Who the fuck wears Steva sandals nowadays!?  You're dressed like your grandpa."

And it was here I knew I had her on the ropes.  I didn't even know what brand name my sandals were.  They were purchased for me over 10 years ago by a girlfriend from long past, but were (obviously) of such high quality they lasted.  But in being able to tell what brand they were, and to know when they were in fashion, the lady belied the fact 10 years ago she was so hot and in such a high socio-economic class (which she didn't earn herself into) that she had the luxury to know about luxury sandals.  This was going to be a piece of cake.

I continued my goading along a logical line of inquiry, that was occasionally derailed by her cursing, rants, and sometimes just outright hilarious stuff.  But there was a purpose and a direction of where I was guiding the conversation.  I first leveraged the fact I had a significant other and she didn't by pointing out "my loving girlfriend, who I am returning to tomorrow, bought me these sandals."  I asked her if her boyfriend (which I knew she didn't have) ever bought her nice sandals, "No, I don't have a boyfriend!  But my boyfriends in the past have bought me much nicer things that those shitty sandals!"  I then asked about her orange pants, if she had purchased those on purpose, and if they were not themselves 10 years old.  Angered even more, she screamed that those pants were $60 pants, were very much in fashion, and that she could easily afford them with the money she made.  I asked what she did for a living that she could afford $60 pants, at which point she grew a full inch and said proudly she was some marketing muckity muck at some local magazine.  She then took the bait and said in her most condescending and demeaning manner,

"So what do you do for a living?"

I responded, "I wrote a book about a shitting buffalo."

She didn't have an immediate response.  She was actually kind of confused as I imagine most people are.   She inevitably scoffed at it and said, "Ha!  You probably make jack shit."

Knowing my income and how I do make jack shit, but make enough to avoid a real job, I revisited her pants saying, "Yeah, but I don't have to work a real job because I don't buy $60 43 year old pants."

"OK Mr. Smart Guy!!!!  What did you study in college!!!???"

And it was here I knew I had her.  Because drunk, professional marketing type ladies who start drinking at 2PM on a Monday just have to prove they're better at and superior than you at something.  And so we were going to go the "intelligence/education" route.

I said, "Finance."

"Oooooo!  Finance.  Big deal!"

I inquired, "What did you study in school?"

In a Fresno Valley Girl, talk-to-the-hand tone she said, "Uh, I went to Eckhart!?"

Not answering my question because she was so drunk, I said, "No, what did you study???"

"I went to Eckhart!  What shitty school did you go to???"

Further not answering my question, I said, "University of Minnesota."

This then prompted one of Eckhart's finest to start slamming on my accent.  "Oooooo!  Ya der hey.  Dontcha know, Minnesooooootaaaahhh!  Bunch of fucking morons up there."

My friend and I laughed.  We retorted, "No, you are confusing Fargo, which is in North Dakota.  And they don't even talk like that."

"Whatever, bunch of fuckers who probably still are wearing Steva sandals!"

Trying again to confirm what I already knew was true (liberal arts degree) I asked, "So what did you study in Eckhart?"

She said with beaming pride, "Political Science."

I then asked, "Masters degree?"

"Yes," she said proudly.

I then asked, "So what does that have to do with marketing or your job?"

This then sent her into a tizzy. So much so she ignored the question and went on her 37th tirade.

"YOu know what!  I went to ECKHART!!!!  I'm rich mother fucker!!!  Do you know what tuition was???"

I said, "No, I don't, but you're missing my point, if you majored in..."

"$1,000 a year!!!!!"

The booze had taken over.  Hell, I'd go to Eckhart for $1,000 a year.  I tried to point out her mistake,

"Wait, Eckhart charges only $1,000 a year???"

"Yes"

"ONE-THOUSAND DOLLARS A YEAR?????"

"No, wait, it was $47,000 a year!" she yelled.

And then I tried to do some math, "So you spent roughly $50,000 per year for 6 years to go to college.  That's $300,000.  To get a degree in..."

But I couldn't finish my point before she started her 38th tirade,

"I'm rich mother fucker!  I can afford any school!!!  Do you know how rich you have to be to go to Eckhart?  You need TONS of money!  if you even knew blah blah blah blah..."

I wanted until there was a pause to ask my next question.

"Then why did you go to school if you're already rich.  Why work?"

"Well my dad is rich!  We're loaded!" she said.

And that's when I kicked the keystone from out beneath her life.

I said, "Well then YOU'RE not rich.  You're DAD is rich.  That's his money.  Not yours.  You did nothing to earn it.  You're not a real woman.  You're a DEPENDENT WOMAN.  You DEPEND on a man!!! You don't support yourself."

For once she shut up, though her eyes told me she was more livid than ever before.  Apparently nobody had pointed out this obvious fact and her brain (educated at Eckhart, mind you) was scrambling for something to say.  But it couldn't.  How do you respond to truth?  I was expecting more name calling, but, luckily the taxi cab she had called pulled up.  Knowing deep down inside I was right, and having nothing to retort, she got up in a harrumph and made her way to the cab.  Refusing to even talk or look at us.  But I couldn't let it go.  I had in front of me everything I hated.

A spoiled brat.
A person who thought she was better than us.
A former cutie pie who led on lord knows how many superior men cause she was hot at one time.
A liberal.
A liberal arts major.
With a cushy job she got through connections.
Who no doubt votes for socialism
Makes my life more difficult
And a hypocrite thinking in her mind she's an independent minded person.
And scum thinking she's better than other people because her DAD is rich.

It was everything that was wrong with America.  It was an enemy of and an affront to America, freedom, liberty, adulthood, and every decent human being who busted their assess off every day, who were superior to this women in every regard.

And so as she walked away I goaded her even more,

"Hey daddy's girl!  Enjoy your ride home on daddy's dime.  May be he can buy you a boyfriend to tolerate you!  Maybe he can buy you another job so you can play make-believe-independent woman.  Just know you're not!  You are a DEPENDENT WOMAN!!!!"

I said some other things, but whatever I said, I believe the entirety was too much for her ego to take.  She couldn't let inferior, Steva-wearing-scum like me say such things about her, so she got out of the cab and came walking back.  She was walking straight for me and I knew what I better do.  Treat her like an equal.

So I stood up, and made sure to give her a stare that said, "I will treat you like an equal in all regards, including letting you have the first punch and then throwing you down to the ground and holding you there as we call the cops.  And if daddy's little princess' face happens to be throw face-first into the pavement, then so be it."

She was walking up fast, but then suddenly stopped short about 5 feet.  I believe (can't prove) she saw my stare, it pierced through all the alcohol, making it to her frontal lobes, and she saw I would indeed honor her women's studies' classes demands and treat her like an equal.

She spat at my feet.  Falling 3 whole feet short of my "Steva sandaled" toes.  About faced and returned to the taxi.

Now I tell you this story not out of entertainment value (though my friend and I found the whole interaction entertaining), but rather there is a very important lesson here.  For every "top notch, elite, socialite, daddy's little princess," there is a torture soul underneath.

I say this not out of desire.
I say this not out of "what I'd like to see or think."

I say this out of experience.

Every hottie, every night club girl, every super attractive woman who is hitting the night scene that I have ran into has a hidden psychological maelstrom going on.

You wouldn't know it, because all you see is them put together item.  All you see is the exterior.  All you see is what she wants you to see, which is the flash and the cash and the short skits and the "look at me, I'm beautiful."  But if you ever date these girls, or catch them at a moment of weakness as a friend, or catch them in a drunken rage like my friend and I did, you will see this maelstrom.

For example, St. Petersburg's marketing queen has every, and I mean EVERY financial, familial, social, and educational advantage normal schlepps like you and me don't have.  She had EVERYTHING.  A rich dad, free education, no fear about how to pay rent, and a cake job lined up for her.  She has so much she can afford to get hammered at 2PM on a Monday.  She should be living on cloud 9.

But all that material wealth and social status is NOT enough to make her happy.  That is what society TOLD HER would make her happy.

The college degree.  The masters degree.  The corporate job.  The $60 orange pants.  The night clubbing.  Men buying her drinks to get in her pants.  Every material and bogus desire foisted on her by society.

Problem is society doesn't tell you what is the true source of happiness and that is other, high quality people. 

This puts girls (and men) like the St. Petersburg Marketing Queen in a sad and confusing situation that is ultimately very damaging.  Being brought up they never had to develop or hone their personality into an interesting one, a caring one, or an adult one.  A personality other humans might find interesting.  However, at the same time ironically, they have EVERYTHING ELSE handed to them.  Either by genetic luck in looks, being born into wealth, or both.  They have money, attention, adoration, toys, drinks, tuition, etc., everything that "should" make them happy, but sadly, no respect.  Sadly, no friends.  Sadly, no loved ones.

Oh, sure, they have people that just want to use them for their money.
Oh, sure, they have people who just want to nail them.

But nobody in their right mind will tolerate their insufferable personalities to the point they become good friends or genuine, caring lovers rendering them alone.

So by these spoiled children live three decades of life (like our aforementioned subject) they have EVERYTHING society has told them they need to be happy, bar one thing - other cool and genuine humans.

Friends
Families
and
Loved ones.

It's like having a Ferrari, but no keys.

Of course, this causes great confusion, great angst, and ultimately great anger and depression in the elite socialites.  When the hottie turns 33 and the body starts to age, the attention and free drinks dry up.  Her friends get married, and there are fewer in her cackle of friends (and yes, I use that word purposely).  What she thought was "important" in life is being taken away from her, while at the same time she cannot fill that unknown darwinistic desire in her core psychological programming that is screaming for friends and loved ones which would result in true happiness.  But what is arguably the worst curse you can wish on a human, is because she has had such a spoiled upbringing her personality mutually excludes any hope of her finding true happiness.  Worse still, her ego won't allow her to change her personality condemning her to this fate forever.

This is why you see the maelstrom unleash itself on Central Avenue in St. Petersburg.  It is also why she will no doubt go home and cry herself to sleep, every night, until she's dead, for reasons she will never understand.