 | theworldsqueen ; ♤ |
Your name is DAVID STRIDER and, hell, you’re hella famous. And you will abuse of the term ‘hella’, because you can. And because you like it, but of course, this doesn’t seem to matter.
This night is a great night to you. After all that work over shitty papers, with editors and producers screaming at you and you screaming back at them, cigarettes, your ectobiological sister trying to understand if you were homosexual or not and other weird shenanigans of the trade, it was ready.
Sitting in your limousine, drinking a glass of shitty beer and looking at the flash of cameras and the hoard of people screaming your name and the name of the other actors already walking the red carpet in front of the theater, you let out a careless, satisfied grin.
This night was the night and hell, you were fuckin’ ready to rock.
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