As she all but skips towards the table, the collective room stops and holds it's breath like the hands of someone they so dearly love. Like a deer stuck in front of some kind of feminine, idolized car they stare as she continues to daintily hoof her way to the table.
She could be Bambi, if Bambi had fucked her way to the top of Hollywood whilst ingesting indignant amounts of every substance known to man. Hell, if you listened to her side of the story, then she is Bambi.
The Double Scotch on her hand tells us a different story. This is a story of desperation. Of hanging on for dear life whilst the beast that is fame tries to buck you off, then continung to try and hang on, even though you fell off somewhere in between *that* appearance on Letterman on *that* appearance on a Toilet stall cam in Reno.
This story is much more interesting, this is the story that you would be hearing if we didn't fill up half our magazine with emasculating pictures of half naked men.
Instead I sit next next to her,as she downs her Scotch in one, perhaps a metaphor between ubiquity of fame and alcohol consumption, it certainly wouldn't be the first time that we've interpreted genius out a seemingly innocent and meaningless act. After all, Didn't Andy Warhol get a cover of our magazine?
Before I have the chance to finish this thought, she speaks, taking me on a journey through the mind scape of a genius.
'Is my Lipstick okay?' She asks, only half interested, as the rest of her being is more focused on the waiter, and the inevitable downer that is disturbingly enough, not yet in her hand.
This meaningless throwaway line alone demonstrates the rampant drug use, miscreant sexual behaviour and disregard for anything involving good taste resemble as if it was taboo to her, and as the drinks continue to be poured, it becomes harder to pour niceties into this article.
This in itself is the perfect example of the genius that occupies the aura of her, as seemingly without even trying she encapsulates everything that we are trying to avoid in this feature in an innocuous period of seconds, strewn together like the collective cast of television shows that she has slept with, thus fucking me out of a bonus.
According to her detractors, This god given ability to fuck people out of things that are valuable to them has been the sole reason that she's acted in the last 5 years. Sitting with her, it's hard to deny that is probably the truth, but today the truth isn't my job.
No, today I have to make an angel out what is ,probably, the devil poured into a red dress (which she spilled out of several times during the interview, once not even bothering to cover up the indiscretion). Why, because the readers of this beloved magazine have no time for slutty girls that are much more at home in the pages of FHM or Maxim.
No, instead the need class, or failing that, the illusion of class. Which is why I'm writing 500 words about her crossing the floor and ordering a drink, because it is impossible to write anything else about her life without using the words 'slut' 'regrettable incident' or any other number of words that are usually used in conjunction with the term 'Third Reich'. And you dear reader, cannot accept that. And that, I think as she walks away, is the most regrettable incident of all.
Annnnnnnnnnd Scene.
Yes, I knew that this is terrible and makes no sense. Half of this is intentional, the other half is not.
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