I know what everyone’s saying about me. I’m not stupid.
They think I am because I’m beautiful and I don’t have a job. But brains and beauty are not mutually exclusive, and I don’t have a job because I’m smart enough to know that with my looks I don’t need one.
Don’t hold it against me. It’s hardly my fault. Blame my religious freak of a mother and my deadbeat dad. Her Spanish ancestry obviously blended well with his Irish baby-face and emerald eyes. It’s biology, nothing personal. I’ve just made the best of it. You would too if you were in my shoes.
You think I’m boasting now, but I’m not. This is actually relevant. They only think I did it because I’m one of those people who has coasted through life. I’ve got a sports car, a house with water views, a designer wardrobe, no career to speak of, and I’m a familiar face at most A-list parties and events.
I lead what many would say is a charmed life. And I got here because I’m beautiful. Well, that and I married a wealthy South African.
Peter has hotels and collects art and vintage cars for fun. He’s a silver tongued charmer who always gets what he wants and once he wanted me. These days he likes to share his love around, but that’s not so bad when you consider how well his guilt pays off. Diamonds, vacations, even an island named after me. Every public mistake has come with a rich reward.
So, you shouldn’t judge without hearing my side of the story, knowing where I come from and how I managed to get to where I am today. And if this doesn’t put me in a good light, well I guess that’s just too bad. I never was one for pleasing people. I always found that it was just too hard. And nowhere near as fun as pleasing myself.
What I will promise is I won’t sugar coat it – I’m not scared to admit my mistakes. But you also have to remember this is my story and I’m going to tell it how I see it. If you have a problem with that, then I suggest you go check out someone else’s fable.
If you read the papers or turn on the tv you’ll hear plenty of people telling their version, saying they know me and they’ve got all the gory details. But what makes them more believable than me? My truth is as close as you can get. And what is truth anyway? Just a series of perceptions that we hold close to our heart and will defend to the death, but which 50% of other people would completely disagree with. Maybe more.
It’s like if you asked my mother how I came to marry Peter. She’d tell you I was a whore who got lucky. Or a whore who blackmailed a rich man to be my husband and personal banker. But my mother is a religious nut who never did one good thing for me my whole life.
If you think I’m being too harsh, well you’re just like my brother. He’s one of those new age types always looking for meaning in things. I don’t see the point myself. Life is what it is and we just make the best of it.
My brother says mom is a lost woman searching for something. She did the best she could but she made mistakes. I say that’s a fucking understatement and the less we say about my mother the better. See what I mean about the truth being personal?
Get to the story, I hear you yell. Well, don’t be so rude. But since you’ve been so patient and stayed with me for my convoluted beginning I’ll start at the point when I knew Peter was going to leave me. The bastard!
I’m not admitting anything, but he deserved to die after that.
Photo by Kiss Birds