Life of the glamorous often produces dramatic moments. It's like aggressive investing, the rewards are astronomical but the losses are just as severe. When Barry told me I lost a couple million during the first bubble burst, I finally understood why all those bankers jumped out of their offices after Black Tuesday. One would have thought the amount of champagne and cigarettes those bankers consumed would leave them in a perpetual state of bliss, but factor in the cocaine and loss of money, and withdrawal (btw, which is worse, substance withdrawal or lifestyle withdrawal?) it's easy to be sympathetic to their plight.
Anyway, this morning on my way to brunch I was met with the most awful sort of news. A mentor and professor of mine who lured me out to the great state of California hung himself. After getting over the initial shock and slurping down a couple cups of jasmine green tea, I regained composure. My spiritual adviser, Norma, certainly helped. Despite understanding that Professor David is now a true master of death, something he's been dreaming of since he discovered the infinite and permanent state of death, I can't help but say, "Fuck. You."
Fuck you, writers. It is unheard of to go this many years knowing literary fellows who have decided to take their one lives. And why Fall? Always the Fall. I get it, you don't want to reach your winter years, but don't you understand that having this matter of consistency of suicide in one given season is kinda umm... predictable? Overdone? Cliche? Perhaps this is my fourth and final year knowing a glamorous person who decided the only truly way to die is at your own hands. But, fuck you.
This calls for an emergency yoga class. My anger is boiling up enough to warrant a barbaric class such as kick-boxing but Yasmine insists I must maintain composure through balance and breathe. You know what, fuck you too Yasmine. I'm over this balance shit. It's time to get drunk.
Best,
Zsa Zsa
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