Ronan
Being me is easy.
There are a few recipes for success.
One, always smile.
And that’s it. You don’t need anything else. There’s some philosopher who said that people lose their fight, their anger, and even feel humiliated when you counter their maliciousness with a smile.
Though I suspect he meant it as in, Try to be good people, kids. I must’ve missed that part somehow in my philosophical journey, which is basically listening to Cole spout nonsense about the latest book he’s read.
Why waste your life reading books when you can live it? When you can breathe it into your lungs and exhale it back to the world?
While nerds like Cole drown in books, I’m giving authors inspiration and writing material. My life is the best form of storytelling to ever exist.
Don’t thank me yet.
I yawn as I stumble from the bed and to a robotic standing position. The first weird thing I notice is the absence of meat. I mean, girls. You know, their limbs are usually draped around me in pairs of three or four — I don’t have a limit.
Today, no one is in my bed.
Surely I didn’t smoke enough weed to imagine an entire fun night, right? Fuck, if I did, I need more of that shit the Liverpudlian sold me.
I stagger to the bathroom and have a quick shower. That’s not enough to wake me up, so I stand at the sink and splash water on my face. When I lift my head, my expression greets me in the mirror.
They say you know how you feel about yourself by the way you react to the reflection of your face. If you scowl, you’re not happy. If you grimace, you have confidence issues.
My face moves into an automatic smile. Fucking liars. There are other types of people, like me. Try finding a category for me, fuckers.
I brush my teeth and pay a morning tribute to Ron Astor the Second. Yes, that’s my dick’s name, and yes, I always need to give him the morning routine. Usually, there’s a girl’s mouth willing to ease him into the day, but today he had to restart his affair with my hand.
Seriously, though. Was last night real, or do I need more weed?
I step back into my room to find Lars smoothing my pressed uniform on the made-up bed. I swear he has supersonic speed. When the hell did he even make the bed?
The room is all bright and shiny and smells of some lavender shit. We’re only missing unicorns for the picture-perfect period drama.
“Morning, Lars.” I head to my closet. “Today, we have dinner. No uniform.”
“You said to remind you to wear the uniform so his lordship and her ladyship don’t suspect you skipped school.” He speaks in a professional old BBC-like tone. He watches Downton Abbey a lot and takes this whole thing way too seriously. I even suspect he has a little black book with notes tucked somewhere.
Lars is in his late forties with a tall, slim build. He’s wearing a black butler’s tux with the bowtie and the white gloves. Since he’s the head butler, he makes everyone dress like him, and he’s a Nazi about it.
His blue eyes might appear polite, but he’ll judge you with them all the way to infinity if you don’t stick out your pinkie while drinking the tea he brings.
I snap my fingers at him. “Thank you for reminding me of my genius thoughts, Lars.”
“Any time, sir.”
“Father and Mother aren’t here — forget the sir.”
“Yes, young lord.”
“You’re not funny, Lars.”
His face remains stoic — snobbish, actually, which is his default. You never know if he’s judging or teasing, like he did just now.
I pull the trousers up my legs then my memory filters back in.