Chapter Two:
I layed in my bed the following morning after Gatsby's extravagant party. I was hungover, and drinking Scotch from the bottle in my sea of lavender paisley bedding. It was eleven am, and I could hear deep men's voices conversing in the halls of my house. I believe I had seven men living here at the moment, but for all I know, there could be at least fifteen. I'm not very observant. I spent most of my time with just a few of the men, and maybe a night or two with the others before I didn't like them anymore, or if they found the back door themselves. But, I hadn't spent anytime with my men since my childish thoughts at Gatsby's party. Whenever I would find myself dwindling outside one of their doors with a bottle of champagne and two tall glasses, I would reminisce of my Gatsby-idea. Even though I tried to tell myself those thoughts were just driven by the alcohol, I knew in my heart I wanted Gatsby to really love me, and for me to love him. But how could he love someone like me? Some barley-rich-anymore slob of a tramp who hadn't tried to piece together her life for nearly nine years? I'd have to turn around everything. First and foremost, I'd have to give up my male "guests." But that's all I've known for the longest time. Would it be worth it, giving up my entire... everything? I pondered the idea for a moment longer before sighing and standing up from my bed...
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