Sick City Windows

Okay so every now and then I take a long naked look in the mirror and asess my life slash stare at my ridiculously massive boobs. By every now and then I mean every other minute of the day. And by mirror I mean wherever reflection allows. Where in the past I’ve admired the hippie Siren goddess staring back at me, lately all I see is an overworked underpaid overweight she-Hulk in dire need of an Oxygen blast. It’s scary and totally bumming me out. It’s also really confusing me. I can’t tell if I’m super self actualized or hardcore suffering from body dysmorphia. or both. or none. I don’t really know anymore– what I do know is that it’ll just have tbd in the distant future. In the mean time I thought sharing some tid bits about me would make you, I mean me feel better. I wish I had pictures to accompany these 100% true stories but I don’t, Facebook started in ’04 give me a break!

1. I sang and danced on my 6th grade morning announcements. Wow I feel better already. When I was in 6th grade my sister was in 8th and she worked on the morning announcements. They filmed before school and being that my parents made only one drop off, I was dragged along. After a few weeks I concluded that the program would be infinitely better if there was an intro song and dance, and I should be the one to do it. I can’t remember the full song (and luckily my brain has blocked any memory of my middle school dance skills) but it went a little something like, “Welcome, Welcome to Loggers Run, Loggers Run Channel 3 news station, with broadcasts from…” including all of the anchors’ names and their topic of interest, as in Mark Schwartz with the sports. Now as if being tone deaf isn’t bad enough, while filming the song and dance number I fell off of the stage. Totally great for a blooper reel right? Wrong. It was decided that that take of me singing, dancing and falling (probably in yellow Gap overalls and scrunch socks) was the version that would grace the school news every morning. Needless to say any social encounters that took place in that very formative year of my life were prefaced by, “Oh my god, you’re that girl from the morning announcements!” It was a good thing I didn’t have too many social encounters and by 7th grade I was district for a new school where the memories of my creative innovation were quickly forgotten.

2. I won best dressed for my senior superlative. One of my prouder life accomplishments, if the yearbook picture wasn’t so awful I may have shared it with you all; this pic of my bestie’s 16th birthday will have to suffice. Let me just say that while my fabulousness does translate, the red capris, pink and white tube top, Rocketdogs and highlights I was sporting at the time do not. I was really into color back then. Especially shamelessly wearing a different Juicy sweatsuit every day of the week for weeks straight in Florida. Okay so maybe I wasn’t the best dressed, everyone else was just poorly dressed? No, I was definitely the best dressed.

3. I was on a reality tv show. Yup. that’s right. I was even recognized by a stranger once. It happened to be when I just moved to the city and was working at LF. She asked me why I was working in New York. I asked her why she had a black Amex and not me. It was a really questionable time in my life. Nevertheless- when I was living in Orlando pretending to go to college, my roommate’s friend came across some agents casting for a new show on the Style network that followed a couple of girls shopping. They provided the money and I got to keep the clothes, it was a total win win and after meeting with the directors I was a total shoe in. The morning of the taping I picked up my roommate’s friend Anita, she was totally hungover and totally late, so I thought giving her some Xanex would help with the day. We arrived on set, were told to walk down the street “casually” and act super surprised when the camera crew came running up. It was going really natural until the host, Debbie Mattenopolous asked if I wanted to be in an Instant Beauty Pageant. What the fuck? Hoodwinked to hell– they explained that the premise of the show was not actually to showcase my sick style but put me on some sick display.

Being the pageant participant I had 5 hours to shop within their cheap ass budget for a bathing suit, evening gown and talent AND perform an organized dance number. Anita was to be my “pageant coach.” In the beginning it was going okay–thankfully I shaved that morning and only looked at a bagel for breakfast. At some part during the filming Anita pulled out her flask which didn’t mix so well with the three bars from lunch and before I knew it while scrambling for a “gown” I heard shouts from outside the fitting room. Anita was irate that I was getting all of the attention and would get to keep everything I bought. She cursed out the other host, Rossi Morreale and walked off the show. I’m not sure how she got home that day and I’ve never thanked her for her contribution, but thanks. seriously. I’d like to think you were just wasted and the meltdown was totally organic but now I realize you were a true visionary with my best screen time interests at heart.

The moment Anita left (the first in IBP history), a polar shift took place- it was no longer about 6 girls competing for the crown but how I would overcome the adversity of abandonment. The crew was completely concerned. Would I stay? Would I leave? I mean come on, of course I was staying. If I could buy a fucking talent… I was running out of time! and money. Having bought a chic jade skirt, white James Perse top and Seychelles wedges for my evening look, hey I was going for practicality and I needed a new white tee, I was financially spent. I persuaded the shop to lend me a Trina and Turk bathing suit and all of the flowers on display– rolling blunts on stage was not gonna fly, so arranging a bouquet would have to be talented enough.

By the time we started to film the organized dance number in an outfit so hideous I refuse to give a visual, and the only time in my life I have ever requested to be placed in the back, of anywhere, it started to rain. They decided to postpone the rest of the taping for the next day- another IBP first. The producers wanted to sequester everyone for the night but some people had families, yadda yadda, I had a crew to shmooze. So while everyone went home- I went to the hotel, fucked 3 of the producers and both of the hosts. I’m kidding. But we did party and I did learn how to travel across state lines with illegal narcotics, as they had been for the past few months.

The next day we shot the remaining scenes. The votes were cast. I lost. You thought I was gonna win didn’t you? Well, the winner was chosen by the audience, an audience I was supposed to cultivate. So not my scene. I prefer a Hollywood judging panel completely biased towards the way I look. That’s why it’s called judging, and not call your drunk friends over to Winter Park and have them vote for you. Whatever. When asked how I feel about not winning, my answer today is the same I had then, “It would have been too cliché.” Don’t believe me, take a gander at who I was competing against…

4. I turned down Jared Leto. Okay so like I’ve been obsessed with Jared Leto for as long as I can remember. Well luckily for me unlike my sisters’ crushes, James Franco and Jake Gyllenhaal, mine had a shitty band who kept performing in Florida. After a couple shows, countless signed cd’s and several instances of hardcore flirting, my date with destiny finally arrived in Orlando in 2006. A security guard tipped me off to the whereabouts of the Thirty Seconds to Mars’ tour bus– it wasn’t that stealthy at all actually, it was parked right outside’ish of the venue. So, my sister and I posted up and waited, and eventually a crowd grew. Finally the band walks out, Jared last, and he grabs me by the arm pulls me back behind the fence covering the bus and says, “You, wait here. Don’t move. Don’t say anything.” He tells my sister to watch me and make sure I obliged. Which I did– for a little while.

Anyone who knows me knows that I can go a max of 20 minutes without peeing so having waited as long as I did (something I never do), I got brazen and just went onto the tour bus to relieve myself. Inside I chatted with former member Matt Wachter about how similar our last names are (Wachter: Wachtel), had a drink, chilled, mentally prepared myself for the eventuality of going on tour for the rest of my summer because Jared was totally going to ask me to marry him. Well, just as I was willing face wash into my clutch, the rest of the band walks onto the bus. Jared grabs me, pushes me into the back and tells everyone that he’s just going to say goodbye to me. He shuts the door, sits down on the couch, pushes me down to my knees in between his legs and says, “Do you want to suck my big fat cock?” And then I gave him the best fucking head of his life. Not really, but I often wonder where I would be had that actually gone down…

So what really happened? Shocked that my ultimate crush and the touchstone of beauty just asked me to blow him I couldn’t help but laugh in his face, which was actually his crotch, but I managed to get out, “No, but I hear its huge,” and stood up. I composed myself, leaned down close, pushed back the hood he was wearing, asked him if he really thought that a girl like me dressed head to toe in Dolce & Gabbana would even consider as such without the slightest bit of energy on his part; kissed him on the lips and headed for the door. He got up and in so many words told me he figured I wasn’t the girl and he was sure he’d see me again. Then we fucked like rabbits. Kidding again- but we did make out. briefly.

Now before you flip your shit over how I could say no to Jordan Catalano let me just remind you that 1. if you ask a girl to blow you, there’s a 50/50 chance she’ll say no, no matter who you are. Maybe pull your weight a smidgen and I’m sure you won’t need to ask the question at all. Just saying; and 2. he was rumored to have been with Lindsay Lohan prior to our exchange. No fucking way was I prepared to spend the next 60 or so sexual years of my life explaining how I got oral herpes blowing Jared Leto one night back in college. Herpes are herpes regardless of their origin.

Okay so what the fuck was I doing acting like such a groupie if I had no intention of actually being one? I really thought Jared Leto was going to take one look at me and be so enamored by my beauty that he would ask me to marry him/ go on tour and be the mother of his children. Totally realistic. Needless to say that clearly didn’t happen but purging myself of this story and the others just now has lifted the ugly fat cloud that’s been chasing me lately. I know because I’ve been staring in the mirror for the past twenty.

Btw Jared, if you’re reading this, call me, let’s fuck like its 2006 and you didn’t mistake me for every other girl who would’ve said yes.