Fucked: A Cautionary Tale
I’m horrified. I woke up this morning truly knowing that the best part of my life is behind me, and that, in the worst possible way, it’s all downhill from here. Of course, if I hadn’t had such a blast over the past thirty-five years, I might be less wound up. It’s all relative.
The last huge mistake I made was when I decided to move to Australia to reunite with my ex-ex-ex-ex boyfriend. I got rid of almost everything I owned, burned the few bridges that remained, and left for Sydney, only to be dumped 18 days later. (“I prefer Asian women,” he said, by way of explanation. I profoundly regret that I didn’t respond to the old baldie with “I prefer men with hair” before setting his few remaining strands on fire.)
Regrets, I’ve got a few thousand. Some of them have to do with money. I used to make a ton of it. Unfortunately, most of it went went to powders like cocaine, heroin, and Bobbi Brown’s Sandstone Perfecting Dust. It sure as shit didn’t go to dental care; I’m sporting five holes where teeth used to be.
I’ve got $16. to my name right now. I don’t mean $16 until the next payday, or $16 until I can get to the bank, I mean $16. PERIOD. After 35 years of smoking, today I might quit. I can’t handle spending nearly 50% of my net worth on a pack of American Spirits.
Before it turned into horror this morning, I was glowing with nostalgia. It kicked off last week, when I came across a photo of myself with Keri, my first non-imaginary boyfriend. He was a genuine badass, and quite possibly the template for most of the men who came after him. It’s a good thing I didn’t put any of my eggs in the Keri basket — not only did he die young, in a motorcycle accident, he looked like a puffy version of Ron Jeremy when he did. (I’m aware that I sound like an asshole, but the fact is that I have no memory of Keri; my only reference points are the before-and-after photos I’ve seen this week. The first, where he’s young and hot, and the most recent, taken shortly before he died, where he’s neither.)
I can get incredibly sentimental when I think about the men in my past, although the only one I might ever have actually been in love with was Justin, who came way after Keri, when I was a battle-axe of 30. He was a roadie, married, and he was incredibly sexy even when he was drunk, which was, more or less, whenever he was awake. He broke up with me, a year after we met, in my expense-account suite at the Four Seasons in New York. It wasn’t because he was reconciling with his wife, but because he’d fallen in love with a third woman, who — get this — was a French ballerina named Fifi. (I’m still proud of the time he called me to say that he and Fifi were over, and I said “Who’s Fifi?”)
I used to travel a lot. According to AAdvantage, I flew nearly a million miles on American Airlines alone. In the last six months, I’ve flown exactly once, and that was when I traveled from Rehab #4 in the OC up here to San Francisco, a city I’m trying to consider home. It isn’t. It’s Los Angeles that’s home. I lived there for 22 years. (I’ll go back once I lose 40 pounds and can again afford SoCal necessities like Botox.)
I’m trying to write myself out of this mess. I’m working on a book, which, if all goes well, will be sold to a Major New York Publishing House for a dreamy fortune. Appropriately, it’s called Fucked: A Cautionary Tale. That’s why I’m blogging. In addition to building a platform, which I’ve been told is essential, I’m trying to figure out what to write. In the parlance of AA, I don’t regret the past, nor do I wish to shut the door on it, and in my own words, fuck my mistakes and let’s get on with it.