[Spears] ducks into the dressing room with Ghalib [a totally non-greedy member of the paparazzi who became her boyfriend because great life choices]. He emerges with her black Am Ex.
The card won’t go through, but they keep trying it.
“Please,” begs Ghalib, “get this done quickly.”
One of the girls runs to Britney’s dressing room, explaining the situation through a pink gauze curtain.
A wail emerges from the cubby — guttural, vile, the kind of base animalistic shriek only heard at a family member’s deathbed. ***** these bitches,” screams Britney, each word ringing out between sobs. “These idiots can’t do anything right!”
A new card finally goes through, but by then Britney is out the door, leaving her shirt on the ground and replacing it with the red top. ***** you, **** people, [f-word], [f-word], [f-word],” she keeps screaming.
...
[A young shopper] pulls herself up, mustering the strength to tap Britney’s shoulder. “Um, I’m from the South too,” she mumbles, “and I was wondering if I could get a picture with you for my little sister.”
Britney turns to Ghalib and grabs his arm. “I don’t want her talking to me!” she screams. She whirls around and stares the girl deep in the eyes, her lips almost vibrating with anger. “I don’t know who you think I am, bitch,” she snarls, “but I’m not that person.”