Small dogs scare me
I'm famous.
Not just in the tabloids famous, but tabloids live and breath for my next move famous. I'm everywhere and my parties are brilliant - and not just lines and lines of people waiting to get in famous. But you have to search for my party and get an invite famous.
I'd wear pearls, or maybe diamonds (or are they too passé?), and my clothes and shoes would be imported - even my socks.
I'd go for brunch, because nobody who is anybody eats breakfast (morning bloat suits no one). And dine on gold rimmed plates and drink champagne, because, hey. I'm famous.
I'd have a small dog, not a big dog. Maybe a toy dog of some kind. But I wouldn't take it around like Paris, I'd keep it at home and when my friends would come over, I'd take him out and he'd act like a good little boy and everyone would love him - they'd be so charmed. Charmed by me. And all of us would recline leisurely outside on my deck, sun tanning, with cold drinks in our hands, served by beautiful half-naked men.
When they leave, we'd air kiss goodbye and wave. I would think of watching TV - a moments peace - but my cell would ring and off I go again. I'd wade through the paparazzi to get to my car, the windows tinted. I'd smiled and climb in, telling my chauffeur where to go. He'd take me there without second guessing or asking me for directions, and drop me off to go shopping and have more drinks with the girls.
Then exhausted, hands full of bags, I'd return home.
Looking at my bed for a moment of rest, my cell rings again and I'm invited to a hot new club. I sigh (my life's so stressful and busy), then tell them okay I'll go. So I get ready and phone up my makeup artist and he makes up my face just right. Then I'm gone again, into the night.
I'd return home with my dance shoes still on and possibly some real great guy, and wake up and do everything all over again.
Now wouldn't that be the life?
Not just in the tabloids famous, but tabloids live and breath for my next move famous. I'm everywhere and my parties are brilliant - and not just lines and lines of people waiting to get in famous. But you have to search for my party and get an invite famous.
I'd wear pearls, or maybe diamonds (or are they too passé?), and my clothes and shoes would be imported - even my socks.
I'd go for brunch, because nobody who is anybody eats breakfast (morning bloat suits no one). And dine on gold rimmed plates and drink champagne, because, hey. I'm famous.
I'd have a small dog, not a big dog. Maybe a toy dog of some kind. But I wouldn't take it around like Paris, I'd keep it at home and when my friends would come over, I'd take him out and he'd act like a good little boy and everyone would love him - they'd be so charmed. Charmed by me. And all of us would recline leisurely outside on my deck, sun tanning, with cold drinks in our hands, served by beautiful half-naked men.
When they leave, we'd air kiss goodbye and wave. I would think of watching TV - a moments peace - but my cell would ring and off I go again. I'd wade through the paparazzi to get to my car, the windows tinted. I'd smiled and climb in, telling my chauffeur where to go. He'd take me there without second guessing or asking me for directions, and drop me off to go shopping and have more drinks with the girls.
Then exhausted, hands full of bags, I'd return home.
Looking at my bed for a moment of rest, my cell rings again and I'm invited to a hot new club. I sigh (my life's so stressful and busy), then tell them okay I'll go. So I get ready and phone up my makeup artist and he makes up my face just right. Then I'm gone again, into the night.
I'd return home with my dance shoes still on and possibly some real great guy, and wake up and do everything all over again.
Now wouldn't that be the life?