Lost Journals

Excuse me, Mr. O' Brien, may I have another Coors? I used to drink martinis utnil I met that son of a bitch. He's the one that srinks this shitty American crap. Stupid matchstick munching redneck.

What was I thinking. My daddy warned me about him. Said he was up to no good and all he wanted was a piece of the Thompson cash. Betty, he said, a boy like that only wants two things and you have both of them: sex and money.

I guess he got 'em both. Stole my virginity. Then the bastard stole my Beamer. How am I going to tell Daddy? He's going to be so mad at me. He bought me that car for my sweet sixteen.

Do you have any snacks? Pretzels? Peanuts? Thanks. You should really fix this place up. Recover the booths, refinish the floors, it could be a real classy place.

I know what you're thinking. I'm just another dumb rich girl who got taken advantage of. You might be right. But this guy was different.

Under his torn Levis and flannel shirt he was smart. Smart enough to make me fall in love. He was a reader, got me excited about books, movies, music. He was brilliant, probably could've gone to Harvard. But he loved working on cars.