Hello People That Read This Site,
I’m Babe Walker. You may know me as @whitegrlproblem on Twitter, or @babewalker on Insta, or White Girl Problems on FB, or you may know me as your best friend. Either way is cute.
Here’s an exclusive TSM leak from my new book, Psychos, which comes out tomorrow. Oh my God.
I handpicked this part of the book for you guys because I have a feeling you’ll understand what it’s like to deal with a guy who’s totally hot and doable, but also totally a child, a little bit of a nightmare and a lot bit of a drug-addled loser. Am I wrong?
REHAB IS FOR PUSSIES.
Paul was a fellow rehabber I’d been sleeping with during most of my time at Cirque (rehab facility). He had an enormous penis. If you took Josh Hartnett and added two inches to his dick and overall height, you’d have Paul. Unfortunately, in addition to being hot, he was also a total psycho, which made him great to fuck but hard to deal with when he wasn’t inside me.
Our attraction started innocently enough—we’d make out in storage closets after our group therapy sessions while everyone was at dinner. But then once my roommate left, I started sneaking Paul into my bed at night. He developed feelings for me and things got messy. I was looking for someone to blow off steam with (and sometimes blow), and he was looking for some- one to latch onto. He needed a real girlfriend who could handle listening to him read Bukowski aloud. Our “relationship” was doomed from the start. But here he was, at my house. My heart jumped into my throat. Was he the one who’d been after me this whole time? I pressed the intercom button.
“Why aren’t you at Cirque?”
“Baaaaaaaabe. I left. Rehab is for pussies. Lemme in.”
“No. How did you know I live here?”
“You wrote me a letter a week after you were out and told me I was the most spesh person you’ve ever met, and that I should come visit you.”
“Oh. Yeah.”
Fuck. I had totally forgotten that, in a momentary fit of missing Paul, I’d written him a semi-love letter. Had I encouraged stalker-ish behavior?
“Did you break in earlier?” “No way, dude.”
“Liar.”
“I just got here.”
“When?”
“Just now! Landed at LAX an hour ago. This town is fucking boring as fuck, yo!”
“Hold on.”
I rewound all the camera footage and sure enough Paul had gotten dropped off by a taxi and sauntered up to the door of the guest house five minutes earlier. Even though he was acting exactly like Skeet Ulrich in Scream, he wasn’t the culprit. Truthfully I was kind of glad Paul showed up when he did, because he could provide protection from whoever was trying to eliminate me.
I ran back upstairs, swept up the broken glass, put the mangled picture frame in the closet, fluffed my hair, threw on a La Perla silk georgette chemise with a matching thong, and opened the front door, trying to look as bored as possible.
“Can I help you?”
“Molly for Pauly!” Paul screamed, scooping me up and running into the house with me in his arms. Oh great. Paul was high on molly. He carried me all over the house while I half-protested, and then ran up the stairs to my room, where he threw me on the bed. I wanted to hate him, but I was kind of loving this moment for myself.
According to our group therapy sessions, Paul Courtyard (Courtyard as in Courtyard by Marriott) had grown up with tons of money. His parents bought him his own mansion in Beverly Hills when he was fifteen. Then Paul got into a really intense relationship with some girl named Naomi. He also got into a really intense relationship with heroin, MDMA, and poppers. When Naomi dumped him because she couldn’t deal with his other relationships, Paul lost his shit and beat up her dad (kind of hot) and almost killed him (kind of really hot, except not at all). Instead of going to jail, he was ordered to complete six months of rehab. He spent most of his time in treatment brooding, talking about Skrillex, and fucking me, so I guess it’s not that surprising that he hadn’t made much progress.
“Babe, you look hot!” he exclaimed, breathing heavily. “Thanks, Paul.”
“No, I mean your face is melting off.”
“Ugh. Stay here, I’m gonna get you some water.”
When I came back to the bedroom, Paul was wandering around naked.
“Paul, just because we used to fuck in rehab and you’re naked in my bedroom doesn’t mean I’m going to fuck you now.” Of course I was going to fuck Paul. He was hot as shit, and somehow even more attractive in his altered mental state. Plus, the adrenaline rush from my near-death experience had left me kind of turned on.
“Babe, whyyyy?” he whined. “I came all the way here to find you. Jesus, it’s like two hundred degrees in your house. Why do you have so many plants? Is this a jungle?”
“No.”
“Oh.” Paul stopped suddenly. “Do you hear that? The phone’s ringing.” He started crawling around on the ground, picked up one of his boots and held it to his ear.
“Hello? Oh yeah, one sec.” Paul handed the shoe to me. “It’s for you.”
I took off my chemise.
“She’ll have to call you back,” Paul said calmly into his shoe, smirking.
He jumped onto the bed and we started furiously making out. “Babe.”
“Paul.”
“You are, like, the best kisser. My mouth is on fire.”
“I’m glad you’re out of rehab and having fun, but I’m kind of worried about you,” I said, looking into his eyes.
“I think I love you.”
“No you don’t. What drugs are you on?”
“Babe, I’m not on drugs. I’m just chilling in my drug house right now.”
“Excuse me? Your drug house?”
“Yeah. Like, the floors and walls are made of molly. There’s also a whiskey garden, a weed chimney, and a cocaine skylight. It’s my dream mansion, and I live in it most of the time, but sometimes I go outside.”
“That is seriously fucked.”
Paul licked my neck. “You taste like a marshmallow. I’m gonna take a piss. Be right back.”
What is he doing here? I thought to myself. Was he sent here to protect me? What is the universe telling me right now—that Paul is the new Robert? (my ex)
Five minutes went by.
Paul could totally kill someone if they broke in again.
Ten minutes went by.
Paul could be the love of my life if he were sober.
Then fifteen.
I’ll bet I can get him to go back to Cirque.
Then twenty.
I’ll bet I can get him to stop listening to dubstep.
Then thirty.
Paul is definitely the new Robert.
But where had he gone? Was he taking a shit? I really hoped not. That would be a terrible way to start the rest of our lives together. I got up, put on a robe, and walked by the bathroom door, but I didn’t hear anything. I knocked.
“Paul?”
Nothing. I knocked again. “Paul, are you okay?” Still nothing.
“Paul, are you pooping?”
Still nothing. At this point I was irritated, so I just started repeating “Paul? Paul? Paul? Paul?” over and over, hoping he would answer me. Finally, I just opened the door.
The good news was that Paul wasn’t pooping. The bad news was….
click here to buy the book and keep reading!!!
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Babe Walker
Babe Walker is the author of White Girl Problems and Psychos. You can follow her on Twitter at @whitegrlproblem.
@whitegrlproblem
@babewalker
