Inauguration Day

I avoided it. I couldn't go and that made me sad, so I listened to Public Radio and shed a little tear instead.

Enough schmaltz. The week has been taken up with moving, packing and running annoying errands around LA. I finally got to let loose at the weekend with a trip to the Chateau avec Le Godfather. We were immediately besieged by his boyfriend's pussy-posse, who unbeknowst to me, bombarded his boyfriend, who is currently shooting a movie in Rome, with texts such as 'Come back to LA, he's with that slut again', 'Your relationship is in danger' etc. Now as fond as I am of the old codger, the idea that I'm sleeping with him is pretty repulsive. Yes, I am extremely good at talking to old men and making them think they're attractive by laughing at their crap jokes, but I'm not so good at bedding them, so I don't. Yeurgh.

I went to Malibu at the weekend for a drink to get over the trauma and met an interesting blond lady who told me she used to be an escort and once got paid 3k for sucking (insert famous black comedian's name here) dick at the Beverly Hills Hotel. Apparently his pseudonym for such encounters was Curtis Koplin.

I am blatantly in the wrong profession.

I spent the week after this plunged into depression again. The worst thing about my depression is it takes two forms: self-pitying sloth, or self-destructive mania. I'm currently on a mania ride and have managed to insult a variety of very lovely people who I have friend crushes on, and now probably don't want to know me.

So I moved to Venice to look after Clive's dog and house. It's very fucking nice. I wish Clive would marry me, but I'm too young to be yoked to matrimony to infidelitous actors. I am still at my prime 'other woman' stage of life, as proven by the slut comments which consistently surround me. If I got laid as much as everyone thought I did, my vagina would be the size of the Chunnel by now.

In 48 hours I fly to Egypt to finish shooting the India movie. I shall keep you informed of my actions and fuck-ups.