Page 15 of Famous for a Living

And what could possibly work for another job? Where would I even interview? And for what? And who, after all this, would want me?

My temple throbs, as it does every time my thoughts take a cascading turn.

I can see the interviewer now, taking pictures of my résumé to send to friends so they can get a good laugh.

Work experience?

None.

Skilled in other languages?

No.

Can use Excel, PowerPoint, QuickBooks? Shoot, can add seven plus five without secretly using my fingers under the table?

No.

References?

Check the papers. They’ll give you tons of opinions about me.

Because as it has turned out, aside from Serena in this city, practically no one has stuck around.

Even Jacquie, who was so supportive those first few weeks after the news spread, jumping into a manic game plan to get me telling my story for every broadcast, paper, and media outlet she could get me into, dropped me after the third interview. She saw the writing on the wall. She watched as the narrative against me stacked, my voice becoming smaller and smaller.

I suppose the desertion isn’t surprising.

Most of my friends are also in my line of work. And when work and play mingle as ours do and your job relies upon your image and reputation, there is a real cost to associating with a notorious person.

Friends became slower and slower in answering my calls. Hedged more and more around the idea of showing up somewhere to share a meal. Avoided even visiting my home in private because just walking through the doors of the Montana would get them caught on camera.

Could I blame them?

Would I have done the same?

I like to think I wouldn’t have, but then . . .

Even my followers abandoned me like the carcass of a Thanksgiving turkey after the meat was gone.

People, as it turned out, loved the story of the good little starlet.

But people loved the story of the good little starlet who deceived everyone more.

They liked me as America’s sweetheart.

But they loved me as the nation’s surprise villain.

It wasn’t surprising, then, when people began to twist every caption I wrote and story I shared. It wasn’t surprising when people started to nitpick every post and video, turning it around to blast messages I never intended.

I was no longer classy. I was spoiled.

I was no longer pretty. I was outdated. Pathetically trying to fit into a generation I didn’t belong in.

Unintelligent.

Peppy to the point of exhausting.

Morose to the point of depressing.