(clothes: le petit petit. sunglasses: chanel)

I love u

Loved ones. I think u have seen it coming. By the time your read this my life on this blog will be over.

There are many reasons. Most of them just hinted in the vague threats by my lawyer. I tell u, there are MANY things my part of Hollowood don't want the world to know. (And there's no shortage of lawyers here either). And as much as I don't WANT 2 care about those things, I do. I'm spoiled and afraid, and ever since Black disappeared, I'm also lonely.

Also, this blog has grown to big for me. Every DAY I get mails from around the world telling me what a rich bitch I am. And  even WORSE: Everyday I get mails telling me how beautiful I am. How people look up to me. But I am NO Role Model. I'm an anxiety ridden wreck that runs on fantasies and self-loathing.

(There are also other things, weird dreams that started to come alive with this blog, and that I hope will die with it)

All this aside, YOU have changed my life for the better, and THAT I can never repay. If I EVER get my life back, I'll b back, right here, with U, the only place I felt safe, in a long time.

Love and blessings

(Trenchcoat - Max Mara)

I miss u.

Things I wish I didn't remember:
The way dad's friends looked @ me when I was fourteen.
How I once let one of them touch my blouse.

Or that one time @ Hilton when a man bought me a glass of wine because he liked my shoes and I drank it without a word while staring @ the Jil Sander boots I just stole.

I guess that's what loneliness really feels like.

Feels like my head is an empty vault. I wake up, walk outside, lay down on the grass and gaze @ the sky. I don't even bother to pour my madeira into one of granny's crystal glasses, I just bring the whole bottle. Sometimes I fumble my way through her wardrobes until I fall asleep in a pile of designer clothes on the floor.
Things just keep getting more and more strange. Ppl want me to delete this blog and "shut the fuck up about things that's not mine to share". The attorney came 4 a visit last night. An american spirit in the corner of the mouth, sweat dripping, shirt buttoned wrong.
"You have to be careful with what you say." He said. "Not everyone is your... friend."
I just stared @ a point above his head.

Yeah, there are crazy ppl out there, and some of them have money and weapons and a lot to hide. But "the real world" is like a blurry photo to me. I can't see the motive, no matter how close I look.

Truth is: I'm not allowed to give you (or anybody else) any details about the funeral. Or about granny. Or about other stuff I've been planning to tell you. But I'm fed up to the ears with secrets, so I'm think I'm gonna reveal them anyway. If you want me to?


Dark sky, Madeira by the pool. The days without Black are starting 2 feel like one long red-wine soaked autumn.

I have some news about the FUNERAL, but first.


I've gotten many comments and emails asking me 4 more romance in general and more Evan in particular. I'll tell u more about that very soon, until then, let me tell u about my Paris BF.


"Johnny with a J" he called himself, pronounced with a VERY french accent. Maybe the name should've been a warning signal, but I was drunk and sad and found it sort of endearing.

Anyway. I remember Johnny wore 600$ Louis Vuitton slippers, smoked black tobacco and could stare in AWE @ his own naked body in the mirror for hours.
"You KNOW it's only an urban legend" i once said "in REALITY the male genitalia don't grow larger by u staring @ them"


And I remember Johnny's fist hitting my still open mouth. The weird sound, the taste of metal.

And I remember smudging the blood from my lips to my white dress asking if he thought it matched my shoes?
And I remember him answering that question by stating that I was a "fucking mental case" It was a term he had picked up in a british movie and used about most people that did anything he didn't understand (roughly the entire population of France and, ok, all other countries)
But in my case I guess he was spot on. Not even a hobby psychiatrist could dispute THAT diagnosis.

It was, all in all, the most memorable experience in our relationship.


Back home I tell Zombie the story of Johnny and he asks what made me so horny for affirmation.
"I'm a horny girl." I say.
"Well don't look @ ME with those droopy eyes" he sez "I havn't been inside a woman since my first birthday, and she did NOT seem to enjoy it."
And I say "ha ha ha"
"Speaking of pain" he sez "do you wanna go to that Dior party?"

And against all sound judgement (must b the temperature) I hear myself say "sure".

So saturday me and Zombie are off to Dior.
I've got a feeling it's gonna b memorable.

"The most intense pleasures occur in despair."


What do u want, heaven or hades? Rainbows or dirt?

I see something in the corner of my eye, but when I turn around there's nothing there. Maybe I've finally fallen asleep. But I can't b sure, can I?

Close my eyes I close my eyes and try try try to drift away. On a cloud, 2 a place where time doesn't exist and everyone I know is still alive.

I can't STAND it. The heat makes me dizzy. I take granny's old -47 Buick Cabriolet out of the garage and I KNOW it's a mistake, something that will have consequences (I vaguely remember something the gardener said bout oil pressure and brakes) but I can't think straight and I need 2 get away.


Then I drive north up Roscomare, fast, under the huge sycamore trees and it is strange cause it feels like I'm looking 4 something even though I'm NOT. (You know, like in a dream when u know that something's gonna happen even though you DON'T know) but I don't care because I look beautiful, dressed in my red Celine matching the white leather interior and I drive even faster uphills, along the park towards the canyon.


Winding road, cacti skyline, smells of asphalt and dead bushes and then, suddenly, I REMEMBER. I pull over 2 the side of the road and then I'm there, as if I never left -


I'm in the back seat of the same car, but the sun. It's different 'cause it's still 1996 and the white leather is hot against the thin white fabric of my Prada dress. Viktor is by my side, of course (he's ALWAYS next 2 me in my memories) holding my hand hard as the car speed up on the narrow road.
Between us is Aloysius but HE can't talk yet - no, not until after Viktor's funeral - but he smiles @ our fear, and his smile makes US smile and then daddy turns halfway towards us, half towards mother.
"There it is!" he sez pointing proudly, breath stingy with Gogol vodka "do you see it kids? The only sign the whole world knows how 2 spell"
And we watch, in awe. H-o-l-l-y-w-o-o-d the letters spell but the whole world doesn't include ME and VIKTOR cause 2 us it's no more than some weird wooden symbols and then mother shouts.
"Keep your eyes on the road you idiot" and daddy yanks the steering wheel, saving us all from being another figure in the Mulholland Drive Crash Statistics down @ BA police station and then we all giggle, half in relief and half cause we are a FAMILY and we giggle @ each others peculiarities, like daddy being an absentminded drunk that quite often almost kills us all.


The honking of a truck wakes me up and I realize I'm sort of parked in the middle of the road, and THEN I see the bird. He's sitting on the edge of the ditch just in front of me, gray feathers shining like metal dust and when he sees me he spreads his wings and disappears and I just gaze after him, but then the truck honks again so I give it the finger, start the engine and drive towards the sign and the sadness of my memories is transformed into something… else and then I open my hand.

And I look @ the golden key.
And for the first time, it hits me. I think I know where it fits!

Again, insomnia and this weird sadness. Then in the lonely hours I read what you wrote of me and I blush and everything I put into this is again worthwhile.

Insolente Parisienne

Its not just a bag

The Ordinary Peoples

Le Petit blog

I love you all from the bottom of my Karelian heart.
Can't sleep.

It's that stupid gray bird. He's out there in the darkness somewhere hidin' and just as I'm about to doze off he makes this sad cry as 2 remind me my own loneliness.

What's the cure 4 insomnia?

(Pale skin: Sunblock & Shade.)

Vintage lace, a stormy sky, madeira, madeira stains, a talking bear, ancient useless guns, repulsively expensive underwear.


What else?


Update: why do ppl think of loneliness as an obviously bad thing? (At least, I know I don't.)

It is late now. Outside the soft Bel Air darkness has fallen, and I sit here in my grandmother's bed, in my grandmother's house in my grandmother's city. Alone with my memories.
-The duck with the broken wing me and Viktor found by the creek and got 2 keep. For five weeks feeding him cornflakes, Sprite and love until one morning his box was empty.
-Sunday shopping with dad @ the mall.
-Me overhearing mom complain 2 dad 'bout the stench from the "fucking duck carcass" in the dumpster.
-The 164 cigarettes me and Evan smoked behind the fence towards the hill (yes, I counted them)
-Me leaving Evan 4 Europe. Without a word.


Life is strange. Now I'm back, and all I can think about is the person I left without a word.


But until Evan returns I will make do with what I've got. And what I've got is a 52 year old homosexual nobleman from France called Zombie and lives in one of the half hidden guest houses in granny's back garden.

My new found friend believes Hollywood is as interesting as a Dancing Bear with a strange red hat. "Interesting 2 watch perhaps, but not someone you ask for guidance in spiritual matters."

Apart from despising Hollywood, Los Angeles and USA in general he also has this obsessive idea of "hanging out" with me.
Strangely enough he seems 2 have some sort of influence, because there's a lot of important lookin' people comin' and goin' in his small back-yard shed.

And oh yeah - he will stay until the funeral.


(It's all, I'm sure, grandmother's idea of humor. I can almost hear her laugh from wherever they keep her now.)


Finally, 2 celebrate my loneliness I've spent the evening writin' something extra 4 you diehards. It's about Evan.


Press "Like" on Facebook below and then visit my Facebookpage 2 get the password.
(Yeah I KNOW there's a lot of Facebook begging these days but that's the only way 4 me 2 know what u ppl want. And I'm nothing but a slave 2 ur affirmation)

(Dress: The salvation army)

As you remember, Black, my best friend and Achilles left me a week ago. Said she was going 4 a walkabout. Well, today the loneliness of grannie's house was 2 much 4 me, and I went down 2 Chateau 2 try their vodka in the company of… well… myself… and I must've been good company, because I  don't think it was more than 2 p.m. before I was really drunk and just sat there, by the pool trying (as now) not 2 think of Viktor and dad and granny, when I saw a dark figure in the corner of my eye and I turned just in time 2 see her disappear behind the wall.


I know it can't b her but I know it's her, and I follow her and when I'm @ the corner I see her.
She's by her car stuffing huge crates of something into the trunk, but she doesn't see me and I'm just about 2 shout when I feel a hand gripping my shoulder and I turn and it's…


I close my eyes (the sun against my eyelids, the color of blood) but when I open them he's still there.
He puts his finger over his lips like he wants 2 silence me and then points 2 something up on the hotel roof.
A gray bird?
And I stare @ the bird like, I don't know, it's supposed 2 mean something.
Then I look back and Evan is gone and Black is gone and instead there is this small mexican guy politely (but with some ice in his voice) asking me if "I want the check before I leave".
Suddenly I'm "hyped" and "celebrity blogger" and (drumroll) :

1. Get invited 2 the opening of Victorias Secret in Pasadena.
2. Get 25 free cans of Monster if I pick them up @ some downtown adress.
3. Get asked if I want to b guest in spanish 2pm talkshows. I tell them I don't speak spanish and they tell me no problemo - Mexican guys loves blond girls, especially if they don't talk so much.


Also, I've gotten my share of haters. They comment here and write me on Facebook also saying my "hype" soon will end and that they want 2 kill me. All anonymous of course, 2 bad cause tonight I sort of want to take them up on that offer.


Aloysius sez the haters have a point. That my current header makes me look like some "wannabe hipster".
But on the other hand he told me I looked like a "giggeling whore" @ the Gucci party when I accidentally laughed @ something one of the french guys said.

Guess that makes me a Hipster Whore. Kinda catchy nickname, no? Sort of reminds me of how people used to talk 2 me in highschool.


Anyway. U agree with Aloysius that my design look like a hipster whore? And if you do, is that a bad thing?
Or should I change it? I've gotten a new design from a fan.


I'm tired and want 2 sleep. Please haters, leave this post alone.

(Dress: Malo SS 2009)

HEAT. Sweat, flesh and no where 2 hide. @ least not outside.
So I spent the morning walking through granny's wardrobes. Smell of mothballs, old perfume and expensive fabric.
As I walked in and out of the walk-through closets I realized.
Must b a million $ only in FABRIC there.


Btw, the other day by the pool.
It WAS the attorney callin' . Of course.
"Do you have it?" he asked and I froze. DID I have it?
I went inside and I looked in the drawer and THERE it was. How could I've forgotten? I took the tiny golden key in my hand, it felt weirdly heavy and quite cold against the skin of my palm.
"Sure" I said "I've got it.
I tried to say it casual, but my heart pounded violently.
"Now what do you want me I do with it?"
"Hold on to it" he said.
And b4 I could say anything else he hung up and I just stood there, heart still pounding. Was I dreaming?

(Nightgown: vintage Christian Dior)

TODAYS OUTFIT: In a rusty metal box behind the collected works of Shakespeare I find a bottle of perfume. With dusty, shaky fingers I remove the cap and let one drop fall into my left palm. Then I lick it. Mouth filled with a faint taste of roses and sweat.