Hey dude, shut up already.
Shut up about your farcical air kissing, your muah muah’s. Shut up about your boob jobs and shut up about your tummy tucks. Shut up about the label on your luggage. And you with the botox face, isn’t that bag rather big for your tiny and unproportioned body?
And you there, unsightly faced squared jaw svelte chic with a pout and a ton of make up, yes you.
Tell me what 2 + 2 is, quick.
Do I hear a Doh! in the background? Yes of course you dumb dummy. She doesn’t need to know.
Some dumb ass husband is generous with the upkeep. He’s got the trophy wife he can parade around. Pop! The flash bulbs go … Pop! Again and again. It makes him look good. So what if he looks like a frog.
Daggers drawn. It makes his out-of-shape friends burn with envy, and that gives him a raging satisfaction. They’re stuck with out-of-shape wives that cost as much and sometimes more to maintain. Hahaha. Suffer…Burn…Envy. Evil laughter. The devil surfaces.
Stop. Stop right now. Abandon ship! Nightmare in progress …
Flashbulbs, oh the flash bulbs. Pop! The flash bulbs went … Pop! Again and again. And again! Non stop.
So now you know why you see me, and people like me, wearing shades all the time. It cuts the flash glare. It allows me to modify my fake smile, get in a variation in some times, yes, a pouty, pursed lips look with a twinkle in my eye. Nobody can see the twinkle in my eyes you dummy, I wear shades remember.
I hate these high end do’s. I abhor them. There’s just too much of self aggrandisement going on, just too much of flash going around. And the Pop! Flash…Pop! of the shutterbugs bounces around, catches the bling, catches the couture, catches the smells, catches the muah muah’s and bounces off shiny teeth and vaults straight into the tabloids the world over in a moment. Ding! Mail sent.
Overdosed. An overdose of overdose. I want to get out. I can’t. Pop! The flash bulbs went…Pop! Again and again.
I wake up. I am in a sweat.
Was it a bad dream? Or did I just go through a couple of hours of pain I wonder aloud to no one in particular. I rub my eyes and look around. They protest. They could do with more sleep. The eyes slowly shut again. Zzzzz zzzzz. Snore.
Rude girl friend against a gentle azure sea. Loud. Odd picture. WAKE UP she screams again.
I shade my eyes, try to cut her out, try to cut the blazing sun out too. Damn it’s hot. What time is it? Where am I? Why is everything swimming? Focus. Focus your eyes, I speak to myself in my mind. Shhh…nothing loud until I get out of this hangover.
“You were rude yesterday…”, she says. There’s a tone to that soft voice that is at least a few degrees cooler than the air around. Quite a few degrees cooler.
It wasn’t a dream, then.
I stagger up and haul myself to the bar. “Bloody Mary” I mutter to my butler, who takes a step back politely, taken aback by my alcohol infused morning breath. I gaze out of the deck and watch the coastline bob gently on the waves. I look around my yacht. She looks good. I love this baby more than anything else in the world.
“Lovely day” I say to the girl friend, a satisfied look on my face, sipping my drink, sipping my hangover cure. A cold shoulder is what I get in exchange. The temperature drops visibly again.
“You have nothing nice to say about my friends…” she replies, casting me an iceberg look that could take care of the Titanic all over again.
“It’s not about your friends, it’s about those strange people I keep bumping into deah…”, I counter. “I feel I am in a zoo, in a circus…”
“You don’t care for me anymore…”, she sulks.
“I don’t care for hollow people who only care for a front page slot on the tabloids…”, I plead my case.
Unmoved, she continues, “You drive me insane with your foul mouthed soliloquies about people…”
“Deah, but meaningless drivel drives me insane!” I argue.
Silence. No questions asked, no quarter given. Just silence.
Finished. I am finished. That one look from her is packed with enough permutations and combinations of meanings that connote only one thing: I am finished. Toe the line and suffer. Or find a new girl friend. The choice is clear.
I give in, I give up. She takes command of my yacht, asks the crew to set course for Monaco. Another round of muah muah do’s is on the menu starting this evening.
Sigh! The season has begun. The circus is on. I don’t need an astrologer to tell me the near future is filled with more bling bling moments, more Pop! Flash…Pop! moments. More vitriol in my gut.
I’m a prisoner of stardom. I must see a psychiatrist. I must be free. I am going to need a lot of prescription drugs to keep me calm over the next few weeks.