posted on Mar, 31 2010 @ 10:33 PM
This was the first draft of the first chapter of a silly vampire novel I was planning on writing. I've moved on to other things, but still have kind
of a soft spot for this orphaned chapter from an unwritten book
I am the palest woman in Los Angeles. Sun definitely does not agree with me.
Rich, pale, fabulous, and excruciatingly gorgeous, I am unembarrassed to be the stuff of fantasies every time I walk into a room. I am also--and I
say this to you very casually, matter of factly, as though I were telling you about a glass of Chateau Mouton I'd recently sampled at Ma Maison, or
some other equally quotidian delight--I am also the stuff of nightmares. By my own count, I am responsible for (conservative estimates, round
numbers) about 200 murders, 800 kidnappings, 2500 (extremely) aggravated assaults, and I routinely cheat at cards. I have a beauty mark just to the
left of my ideally retrousse' nose. So add to my other crimes the number of times I've driven other women to nosejobs and/or eating disorders.
My bedroom is done in preppy pink and green, in stark contrast to the minimalist aesthetic that defines the rest of my condo. Above my bed is a large
painting of myself, in pinks and greens natch, that I commissioned from Lucian Freud several years ago. I'm sitting in a hot pink beanbag chair
admiring my nails, which are painted the fourth darkest of the 40 or so shades of black offered by Chanel this season and complement my black hair,
which is, in turn, especially shocking next to my snowy skin and million mile deep blue eyes. A semi-famous musician (a keyboardist so not very very
famous, admittedly) is bound to my bed, bleeding, as they say, profusely. I'm wearing a pair of black ankle boots with stiletto heels from Gucci,
white Versace jeans, and a tight black top by Agnes B. The keyboardist, whom I met last week at a party at some movie producer's house (at which
David Bowie failed to show up, to my disappointment), is struggling frantically but clearly not going anywhere and I stare at him for a few minutes,
giggling and urging him on, until it gets a little boring and I go back to my nails. I have an engagement later in the evening, an afterhours deal at
Spago, but I still have some time to kill, so I pat him on the head, smile sweetly, then bare my fangs once more to see his reaction. I'm thinking
that it's sort of too bad he likely won't remember much of this evening, and will likely doubt the few memories he does have (drugs, booze, the rock
and roll lifestlye), as I laugh once more and walk into the other room to maybe watch Jeopardy or listen to Blondie. The keyboardist, who doesn't
know whether to fear more my absence or my presence (which should he fear more? what do you think?) is thrashing clumsily, smearing blood all over my
pink Hermes bedsheets.
Jeopardy is a rerun. I walk to my refrigerator, open a Tab, and walk back into the living room, luxuriating in the clickety-click my heels make as I
walk across the marble floor of my kitchen. I briefly consider putting on a Blondie CD (Parallel Lines), then I consider watching my Back to the
Future LaserDisc (I have a huge crush on Michael J Fox) but there isn't enough time to watch the entire film. So I sprawl out on my couch and stare
at an enormous reproduction of Francis Bacon's Painting (1946), that hangs alone on my south wall, which always tends to make me hungry, hyper, and
horny (note my use of the Oxford comma juxtaposed against my occasional pseudo-Valleygirl vernacular).