The Lion: Wealthy Sexy Jews who Enjoy Wealthy Sexy Jews

Alas, I pride myself on being fancy slash asbergers as fuck and what I mean by this is that I find that as I get older, more racist,  and more Republican, I find that I prefer Saturday nights at the theatre with my likeminded elitist whores chased by a bottle of pinot, three and a half ambien, and expensive porn.

It is not that I do not enjoy the club replete with poor bottle service and people with nothing to say,
 but it is that one can allow ones pill popping  manic depressive persona to exist in other arenas besides indulging in dry sex at a Speakeasy sauteed in Cigar Smoke and Dirty Martinis.

When we got to the theatre I noted the lack of youth at the Performance, a rampant issue in this  pseudo Ivy League Lexapro Dependent Generation.
Most of us need to mask the suffering with blowjobs to old college Friends on Saturday nights in a deluded drunken stupor-
 and not expose ourselves to hearing about someone else's pain- ipso facto confronting our own.

I typically Enjoy the theatre with my Boyfriend slash Father because this establishes that we will have Mezzanine seats and I then  can easily chainsmoke in the bathroom during intermission because I am closest to the aisle.
But
I digress - and spent the night away from my Father.

One of my nearest and dearest contemporaries from High School, a naturally red headed porcelain innocent playwright who was meant to live in the time of Leonardo DaVinci  took me to see her dear friend in a One man show performance called the Lion, not to be confused with the Lion King, or the restaurant on 9th Street where I got fingerbanged by the Sommelier in the 10th grade.

Whenever we see eachother, we take mutual pride in the fact that in High School we did not hang ourselves in our closets  with MOM or DAD in lipstick written on our foreheads so that everyone would know who's fault it was. We have Evolved.

The Lion was everything you ever wanted in a One Man Show, Raw. Truth.  Exposure. Sex. Death. Family Disappointments. Allusions to the English Country Side.  Boy on A Guitar with a voice who would make a Virgin say yes to handcuffs and S and M.
 A One Man show is difficult to pull all off because that one man has the responsibility of being your father, your lover, your savior, your spiritual healer, and your higher power all throughout the course of one hour.  The show comprised of songs of poignant moments of the Jewish Guitarists Life that took us through his own suffering, his disappointment with his parents, and his quest for stardom, which essentially summarizes my existence.
I liked that his  B List rockstar lifestyle refreshingly contained no mention of Drugs, and I was soaked over the fact that what turned him on to his first girlfriend was that she was reading One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, and he still tried to fuck her still knowing that she could be the Girl interrupted.

In the Lion, He became deeply ill at which point I tuned out, because I do not deal with with non self inflicted illness, but I came right back with the mention of his 25 pound weightloss. His story  is about family loyalty, about sex as a tool of betrayal, and about the power of healing and recovery in your physical and emotional self, through music and frustratingly, through other people.
Loving you is easy.

All rich Kids are Artists, but not all Artists are Rich Kids

I have yet to find an individual of this manic generation who does not come from a trashy new Money Wall Street Real Estate Hedge Fund Diamond Encrusted Family who does not truly believe that they are an artist. whether they are a philosopher, a writer, a dancer, a singer, an actor, a painter, a sculptor, a designer or a tantric healer, they believe that they are connected to the pain and to the truth of existence that they can express thru their craft and then Go to Le Bain.

And By all money and means, do not get me wrong as I count myself in this group of delusional sociopaths who spend all their money on blow and oil paint and original Kafka manuscripts to reflect their profound tortured vapid soul, as I am most arguably after Lena Dunham Tina Fey and Ann Coulter the voice of this sect of this generation.
SO then what do I do with this gift slash fund that allows for the time and ability to allow my intelligence, originality and pure thought pore out of my quill pin under the moonlight for New Yorker Critics to bash and call me out of touch, vastly politically incorrect and a writing style with such poor grammatical syntax that Dartmouth should revoke her Bachelors DeGree. Alas. Dartmouth should revoke my Bachelors Degree on account of the fact that I paid my asian to take my SATS and the only time I went to class was when nothing was good on television and my dealer was late  and if he actually made it, I would spend most of my class lectures browsing child porn and flights to Tahiti that would allow my Amex Bill to stay under the Radar.

Additionally I also would post on forums, Where I can I get more c4 Dynamite on the Silk Road.

But what should I do with the gift of money and time to develop my craft? Probably go to Le Bain and talk to my likeminded bulimic whores about Outkast.

Searching for Truth Beyond my Bank Account. What else defines someone besides their Networth

Moral Values? Compelling childhood stories? I am a firm believer in surrendering to something greater than myself, a higher power of extravagant promises that will bring me hope strength integrity peace love and Louboutin, but it occurred to me yesterday that I was in a great need of a newer sexier tighter thicker Cult to Join, and so I embarked on the 12 step journey of opening up my heart and soul up into a place of Zen and No Smoking signs.