California is an amazing place

The lifes of the not so rich or famous

Written by Jade at www.morethenjustreading.com

So here it is, I’ve been feeling like the economy is stagnating, like pond water that turned moldy and algae infested. This life that we live is anything but a life, what I mean is; people spend more time texting or playing video games, or they’re constantly watching T.V. rather then really living and people have forgotten how to interact with each other.

California is an amazing place, in the fact that there is so much to do, but there’s still nothing to do. The people in California are constantly tricking themselves into believing that their big, phony, glitzy, glam-parties are “exciting”, when the reality is there isn’t any real fun at those party’s, amongst the wine sniffing yuppies of the valley or the entertainment snobs of Beverly Hills. When you go to these parties, you introduce yourself to people you’re never going to care about and talk about things you’re never going to remember the next day. All the while you’re looking at your watch and asking yourself when can I leave?

The glam life of the not so rich or famous, should be filled under, “god” why did I waist my time like that. It’s a national pastime in California, to act as if your important, when the reality of the situation is that “no one” on god’s green earth has ever heard of your name before and everyone responds upon meeting you with; “who?” Maybe just maybe, you’re important to you friends, but that’s only a “maybe”, with the maybe being “if you have money or power”; but what you may never do is do better financially then any of your so called friends or all hell will break loose.

I love these party’s, let the gossip fly, let the trash talking hit the fan. In the giant, I’m not really who you thought I was arena. At these, ham stuffed, tinsel-town festivities, where everyone’s a stranger and people are too frightened to look each other in the eyes. I remember good parties, not the Hollywood red carpeted bring your mom parties, where the stuffy swoop down like pigeons, in search of their next victims, so they can trap them and bore them to death with their endless chatter. Glam-parties, where women who didn’t know the meaning of “stop” when it came to “plastic-surgery”, came to hold Tupper-Wear party gossip, with the 50 something crowd, where the only thing that’s fresh are the hors d’oeuvre’s that are preserved by the plastic smiles of the elite, that are holding up the tables.

Me, myself and I, would rather party with the down to earth and maybe with a beer-bong and a live band. Instead of being bored to death, by the not so rich or famous. As they try to fool themselves and me, into believing that were something better then what we really are.

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