I don't know what to do. I have a beautiful sister, amazing fans, heartfelt stories to tell... my birthday, my parties, my tear-salted food, my pictures, my life. It's all about me now, and that's all I've ever wanted. But sometimes, I come down with a stubborn case of writer's block. It usually never lasts more than a few days, but this time it's been two or three weeks. I can't change it. Annie tells me it's genetic; she has it too, obviously. Nothing is wrong in my life - I'm still thin, still fabulous, and we all know I could write about being thin and fabulous for at least another month - yet sometimes I get stuck in a moment I can't get out of. Today I got out of it.
I cried while masturbating. Cried with my holes crammed full. Finished self-phucking, laid on my bathroom floor and watched the drip of the tap, thought about my own dripping and loosening up under fluorescent lights, the slosh of a dildo during penetration, the cavernous echo of my vagina. I felt more like myself, remember how long I've been in love with myself, the relationship that's just about me, with memories and self-portraits. I'm rich. It makes me feel better. I've gotten here on my own, no matter what my sugar daddies say. Even if they're small accomplishments - breaking a long silence or getting mentions on Lindsayism - they're mine, and that's what counts.
I paced around my apartment, sixty times around the Ethan Allen coffee table, Avril Lavigne blasting from my Svarovski-encrusted iPod speakers. I wanted to feel brilliant and invincible again, and the only person who could make me feel that way is me. I don't need your adoration. Okay, I do. But I'm scared of becoming dependent, of feeling withdrawal symptoms when you're no longer here to tell me how perfect and lovable I am. Blah. Blah. All this stuff you hear when you're me. The problem is, I stopped writing for myself. And that's when I worried constantly, with every passing day without a new post, a fresh idea. Are they still reading? Phuck that. I don't need to be reminded of my perfection. Not any more. I'm perfect. I know that. As I am, no scandals or name-dropping. My own name should be good enough. Stephanee Goldstein, the golden girl. I'm strong, I could conquer the world, I am woman. Rawr.
So I'm getting back to writing for me, knowing my talent is too amazing to share on a web page. I'm the only who can write about hair and anal sex and somehow make it witty and inspirational. I'm the only one. Me. Just me. Me me me.
I'm leaving this blog because I don't need, or want, anyone to flatter me with imitation. Shiite, if someone so much as parodied my style, I'd run crying to my lawyer. I don't need those tears. I don't need those blows to my self-esteem. I don't need.
I'm good enough for me. I believe in that, believe in me. ME. I don't give a shiite what you say about my narcissism or my self-indulgence or my vomit-inducing arrogance. I love me so you don't have to, although I know you will. You think you can't stand me, but you still read me. You're infatuHATED, you poor little things. That's okay. I know who I am. I know I'm beautiful. Precious. Yes, sometimes I get writer's block, but that's okay too. I'll still see my name next to Faulkner's and Nabokov's on the list of American greats. I don't need any one to edit my work. I write all these posts in ten minutes, maybe less. That's how incredible I am. I have my own intelligence, my own ideas, my own creativity, and I'll figure out how to use them in my relentless pursuit of fame because that's what I want and I know I'll get there. On my own. Everything I need is inside me, except for my Louis Vuitton handbags, and those could probably fit inside me too if necessary. And knowing that lets me get up from this chair, walk away from this blog. Because as much as I love my fans, my sister, my comments... I don't need them anymore. Me is perfect.