It’s so like Milagros to want to date someone just because he’s Frank Sinatra’s son. You should have seen her when Prince Harry came to town, bribing her way into the Greenwich Polo club and threatening Chris Christie’s secretary.
“You’re such a star fucker,” I told her.
“What about you and Axl?” she said.
“That was completely different,” I said. We were having egg caviar at Jean-Georges but I got up and walked out. It’s a subject I refuse to discuss.
Obviously, I’m sympathetic to anyone who’s celebrity obsessed. What are we worth if we’re without some kind of attachment to fame and fortune? I tried to explain this to my future ex-husband a few minutes ago. He’d just gotten back from visiting Lysette and her new baby in Queens and he was going on and on about how empty he’s been feeling and how he wishes there were more to life than just having money and making money. He missed something so essential – spending money – but I didn’t rub it in his face. You’d think he would have been grateful, but he never even thanked me.
Ever since my meeting with badly-ageing literary agent Elaine Totsky, I admit that I’ve been giving the meaning of existence some thought. I guess being sued for defamation of character is making me doubt myself.
Yes, I’m being sued. It seems that there’s a real person named Melissa Morris out there and she’s upset by my portrayal of her in the detective novels. I don’t know why she’s so bent out of shape. She’s a “Oxfam fundraiser”, whatever that is. You’d think she’d be happy to depicted as something more interesting. Really, people are just selfish. I know there’s only one way out of this mess and it’s to figure out how to mix my Opana and Xanax in the most effective way possible. I will let you know how it goes. All advice is welcome.