ANOTHER AWARD SHOW

He stood looking outside his home studio window contemplating life and all the things it had brought him the ups and downs the moments that seemed to be meaningless but still carried with it some lesson. He was thinking on life lessons mumbling to himself as a freshly typed screenplay sat on the computer screen across the room at his desk. He was feeling accomplished as well remembering the number of lonely days and nights he sat writing as and creating in silence. 

From the moment he graduated University he started writing out of boredom and as an outlet for his thoughts, be they inspirational, dark, or sexual he would jot them down sitting at then a dilapidated desk that was part storage space part entertainment center. Spending hours upon hours working this talent he didn't know he had. Much of the stuff was horrible for sure, but the process made him feel whole like it filled a gap that he didn't think he had. 

He taught himself the basics to screenwriting even before taking a class and once he did you could see the difference, as students having difficulty with format asked question after question he flourished as his subjects would be about the story and how the content could be tighter. He saw life as a movie, and in doing so, he plotted his rise through the ranks vowing to make examples of those who shined him on or doubted his resolve to succeed. 

It was inspiring to see him work against the odds for those who took notice. Others who were indifferent it didn't bother him knowing at some point they'd either come around or be the person in a group ecstatically clambering "I went to school with that guy" as he wins an Oscar and then another one. Having their friends look at them in disbelief like so many did when they looked at him before the stardom. 

He laughs remembering the nights out with friends, and he would fall to the back never the life of the party just the wallflower, now he can't make it to all the parties he is invited to limiting himself to the ones, which could further his career learning Hollywood don't give a fuck about you. 

Still, an avid weed smoker he inhales from joint lit by the hands of a voluptuous red-headed woman who just sensually sashayed across the length of the studio to him. He is dressed stealthily in black on black formal attire, and she is wearing a contour fitted dress that holds her curves like an expensive European sports car takes a turn. She takes another hit, passing it back to him. He watches her blow out the smoke from her pursed red lipstick lips. 

She eyes him over her dark-rimmed glasses. He takes another drag from the joint, blowing the smoke out into the window only a foot or two from where he stands. The cloud of smoke fades off away from them. He reaches out, grabbing the waist of the red-headed woman drawing her close, as she starts in ranting about how her stylist cut onside of her hair shorter than the other. He can see it is somewhat more concise than the other, but it is hard to tell as she holds the ends out one side reaches past her left breast, while the other extends to the top of her cleavage barely. He continues to stare at her breasts under the spandex dress they loom large and firmly supported. She catches his steady gaze. Their eyes lock, and he leans in kissing her deeply. Once their lips part still embracing each other, they make an exit from the studio off to attend another award show.