American Fortune Life

“Andy, you can't go on like this. You haven't done a piece in two years, you know, you still owe the publisher a book! ”

“Even if you can't write that shit, don't refuse the job I got you! ”

“Seventeen" magazine asks you to blog, they like the tone of your speech, it's work, I'm your agent, I'm helping you! ”

Andy Smith watched the bald-headed middle-aged man in front of him chatter all morning, his head buzzing, pressing his fingers against the dying temple, curling on the couch, and he said, "Okay, Carl, stop nagging, FUCK, I'm going to blow my head off, no, I'm going to take a pill, and I'm going to sleep for a while, and I'm not going to give it to you. ”

Carl looked at Andy Smith rubbing his temple, walking up the stairs in a hunch, lifting his hand, his lips slightly twitching, trying to persuade him again, wondering what he had in mind, dropping his hand, sighing slightly, "Then rest well, rest well, remember to call me. ”

Andy Smith lay on a big, messy bed with his eyes closed and his pain on his face, and looking back at the last 12 hours, it was incredible.

“Cough... ”

Song Dawei climbed ashore from the cold swimming pool, vomited, patted his chest with a big mouth of water, and returned to God for a while. Weak limbs and cracked headaches.

Damn, where am I? Didn't I get blown up by a cell phone when I was on the phone with a charging four-star? With his swollen head, he wiped off the water stains on his face, slowly stood up and walked into the house with the faint lights of the villa to find the bathroom.

Pfft, just turned on the light, Song Dawei was foolish, a strange face appeared in the mirror of the bathroom, black hair, blue eyes like lake water, soft five officials, pale face, 180-190 cm tall, but very thin, feeling very uncoordinated. Just separately young and green.

Just looking in the mirror, Song Dawei, already in his thirties, turned around stunned and walked out of the bathroom, stepped on a soft carpet with water stained feet, and lay directly on the big white sofa in the living room, muttering: “Wipe, am I wearing this? ”

As a senior internet bookworm, he quickly realized what was happening, and a moment of unspeakable emotion poured into his mind, excited, frightened or excited.

In the memory of Song Dawei's head suddenly had a sharp pain, as if a burning iron had stirred in his head, causing his brains to boil. Owing to screaming and holding his head, he fell on the ground and rolled. I don't know how long later, the nostrils bled out and passed out.

In trance, in the consciousness of Song Dawei, a grey white cloud fog with tiny currents is merging with a white cloud fog, where the currents are decomposing the white cloud fog.

“Ah... what just happened?” Song Dawei sat up somehow. He woke up and found his head still fainted. He felt a little sticky under his nose. His nose was bleeding with his hands.

He stood up and walked into the bathroom and looked in the mirror, his nose bleeding all the way to the corner of his mouth. After a few seconds of reflection, he closed his eyes and remembered, then suddenly opened his mouth after swallowing it, sweating his forehead and feeling dizzy again. The owner of this body is Andy Smith, 21 years old, a famous young teenager writer, his mother is a Tiffany jewelry designer, his father is a lawyer, a partner in a law firm in New York, and what makes him most happy is that the time is now --- April 2006!

Looking at the messy, dark, spacious living room, Andy turned all the lights on, the villa was decorated in a simple, bright, white colour, European-style furniture, modern, a huge family photograph hung on the wall behind the sofa, the information found in his memory, his grandfather was Chinese, his mother was mixed, he had a quarter Chinese ancestry, the family was very rich.

Andy was very smart since he was a kid, and he was good at piano, guitar, and reading books. At the age of 16, he wrote his first novel, The Vampire College, which became famous, followed by a novel, Papertown, which made him a very famous teenager writer in America.

Andy stripped naked and soaked himself in a big, white, stylish bathtub, watching the steaming water wet the three mirror walls around him, closing his eyes slightly and continuing to remember. Until Papertown was bought by a Hollywood movie company, he was neglected by his own dirty broker to move from New York to Los Angeles and enrolled in South Carolina.

Los Angeles, Hollywood.

In a world full of greedy people, time flirts with you, and one day you dream, and then your dreams become reality, and it's a good time, if someone tells you, to make a mistake, to break your heart, to learn a heartless lesson, and when you indulge in the senseless scent of a woman, here, in this warm California sun, it starts to erode.

After a year and a half in Hollywood, he lost his inspiration, and now he's in a so-called crisis in his life, simply because he can't write, which is terrible, because he's a writer and a professional writer. And now I can't even write a damn break.

The woman, the marijuana, the alcohol, the drug abuse, the mess that had ravaged his otherwise healthy body, the deep eye socket, the pale and morbid complexion, the lean figure, under his 188 cm height, became very weird. Song Dawei, the soul dressed cheaply, was finally drowned in a swimming pool outside under the influence of marijuana and alcohol.

Wearing pajamas, Song Dawei wandered around the villa in a trance of love, looking at all the familiar and unfamiliar decorations and photographs, looking at the spacious study full of whole wall books, the luxurious movie studio, the fitness room with marble billiards and all kinds of fitness equipment...

“It's really... Like a dream.” Andy grabbed his messy hair as he watched the sun shine through the landing window and spent the night sorting out his memories and looking at the villa. Sleepless overnight, recombinant memories and stimulation of marijuana and alcohol not only did not depress him, but rather was unusually hyperactive.

Though Andy doesn't understand why this is happening, he doesn't think it's just exciting to know that the accessory passes through.

As I said before, this Andy Smith guy, young and famous, had about 5 million royalties and movie editing rights to sell books, his parents bought him the villa for over $2 million, a $250,000 red Ferrari F430 from his grandfather, and a 460,000 Euro Porsche CARRERAGT from his grandfather.

Though in a wealthy neighborhood like Los Angeles, millionaires get more cow hair, that's really not enough to look at, not to mention Andy spending a year and a half on wine, no inspiration, no writing, mental anguish that makes him suffer, big foot, no carefree drunkenness, he doesn't even know how much money he has left, there seems to be more than 2 million left in his memory, luckily every year the publisher puts a new copyright fee on his account, as if both of his works are in the catalogue recommended by the American education department for teenagers to read books, sales will increase again, which is a fixed income, perhaps the only good news Andy Smith was happy with before.

Anyway, I inherited everything from him, identity, life. I'm Andy Smith.

Andy shrugged his shoulders and stretched out a lazy waist in front of the window, his head still hurting, but he started thinking. So, what do you do now?

Still thinking about Andy squinting his eyes, blocking the dazzling sunshine, he licked some dry lips, an excitement that never existed that covered his entire body, and seemed to shake him slightly with a burst of current.