Tale of Two Sisters

STFU

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.

entrances and endings

I've been away from this blog for a while, weighed down with busy.  Unable to write about recent events, or even to think clearly, I've felt pent up lately.  There's too much going on, swirling around me, as though I'm on a carousel watching the carnival booths flash by. Cotton candy, funnel cake, multi-colored lollipops.  Caramel apples in cellophane wrappers that catch the odd glance of sunlight.

Of course, faithful readers, the reason for this is obvious: New York Fashion Week.  (Oh, I know, there's the whole Annie's-lovah-is-dead-what-will-happen-to-her-now? thing, but I'll let her finish that story.)  I've been in galleries and tents for days, photographing shows.  The tents, the lights, the clothes, the celebrity sightings, it's all too much.  I need to make a list.  My favorite moments.

• Standing next to a photographer from Vogue, and hearing the latest Conde Nast rumors. (Apparently, Andre Leon Talley is actually a woman.  S/he dated Anna Wintour in college.)
• Bungalow 8 on Wednesday night. Lindsay Lohan told me she loved my hair.
• Overhearing Kirsten Dunst say that Marc Jacobs was her favorite show so far. (It was my favorite show too, which just proves that Kiki and I have the same impeccable taste.)
• The crush of people everywhere, sweating and rubbing together, crowding entrances, it feels like a club or a gang bang.
• Meeting Donna Karan. I love her clothes; she loves my hair. We're probably going to be best friends.
• The Zac Posen afterparty at SoHo Grand last night. I kissed three Posen look-alikes, who all told me they loved my hair. They all turned out to be gay.  Why is this the story of my phucking life? Why is my fabulous hair wasted on men who could fit into my Habituals?

I've just come home from the Boy George show (where Janice Dickinson - world's first supermodel! - told me she loved my hair).  My Blahniks gave me blisters. "Go ahead, baby, lick them. Yeah, that feels gooood."  My sweet Calvin, curled around my ankles, a cuff bracelet of fur and saliva, healing tongue working over my wounds.  Maybe this is the story of my life, despite the flashbulb glamour and gay endings.  This could be it, just me and my dog and my Blisterniks, and that would be okay.  I know that won't be it, though, the way I know when a celebrity is in earshot. I'll find the man I want, the kind with safe arms and salt-streaks in his hair. But right now, alone in my loft apartment, I feel strangely satisfied, as if someone just crammed my rosebud and phucked me til it hurt.

breathless

It all started out innocently enough - I was just trying to get over you, and the void you had left in my heart, my life. After meeting Harold Parker Wadsworth IV at Coffee Bean and Teal Leaf, we began the standard married-geriatric-courting-young-hottie-with-wife’s-knowledge affair.  I thought I'd be sleeping with him right away, interlacing young limbs with old, soft-smooth with soft-saggy.  Yet apparently there is a sequence - lunches at the Four Seasons, shopping sprees at Gucci and Prada, having tea with his aging (and by aging, I mean 33) wife, Greta - leading to the consummation.

"I want you to promise me something," he said once, his octagenarian voice croaking. "Never, ever call me Harold. It’s Parkie. If you do this, I will cater to your every whim, as long as you desire." If this odd request meant a second Kelly, it was simple enough. He was Parkie, and I was Annie.  All this time, I was preparing to navigate the transparent flaps of old man skin in order to reach my ultimate goal. Sure, it had changed slightly - Louis Vuitton’s latest collection is amazing - but still. Means to an end.

Yesterday, the day had come. Parkie came to my apartment to pick me up - we were going to fly to San Francisco for the weekend. First Class. He stood on my stoop, gingerly holding a bottle of 1970 Dom. He remembered. There was a twinkle in his old, cloudy eye...or maybe that was just a cataract. I couldn’t tell.

I invited him in, knowing I’d need to team that bottle with some Xanax before getting on the plane. I had outfitted myself appropriately for my weekend getaway, just like Liz Hurley does when she travels. Elegant and expensive. I don’t understand how women let themselves get so sloppy on flights, no less be photographed like that. What could they possibly be thinking?

Parkie entered my apartment, peering around with obvious approval. He knew he had chosen his mistress well, with the overabundance of Eames, Adler, Noguchi and of course, Steph Goldstein. I took the bottle of Dom from him, and went into the kitchen. He settled on the chaise. I came back, a few minutes later, having hastily downed three glasses of champagne and a couple of pills to ease my anxiety. As I walked into the room, I looked lovingly at my benefactor. How sweet, I thought. He’s asleep. An hour later, after finishing the bottle, straightening my hair, retouching my makeup and changing twice over, he was still there. Same position. At that point, I started to feel slightly irritated. We have to leave soon, and he's STILL napping? I called his name, snapped my fingers, coughed insistently.  Still no movement.  Ugh. This is taking up my precious time.  Reluctantly, I walked the four steps to the chaise and bent over him. He looked fine. I mean, he’d taken his wallet out and sat it down next to him, which made him appear shorter than before. It was so beautiful, overstuffed, almost bursting at the seams, bathed in the warm afternoon sunlight. I sighed longingly. Vintage Louis, no less. I could feel my juices begin to stir...but then, my attention snapped back to Parkie when I realized he wasn’t wheezing as usual.  With emphysema, there is a familiar, almost Vader-esque quality to his breathing, but silence hung in the air like stale flatulence. Like cheap, supermarket Old Spice.

This cannot be for real, I thought, panicked. Parkie up and died on me before he had a chance to change his will. A million thoughts echoed in my head: who do I call? Steph? Greta? 911? How do you hide a body? I don’t want this in the papers; it would be the end of my social life.  I paced the room in my Blahniks, fighting the urge to flee, to pack my Prada bags and cab it to the nearest bakery.  Come on, Annie, breathe.  Think. It's not that bad.  I mean, let's face it - he was pretty old anyway.  Pretty light, too.  I could just toss him out the window - gently, of course - and the police would think he had a heart attack on the street.  But what if someone sees me?  What if I end up in Camp Cupcake? That would be akin to suicide, like white shoes after Labor Day. Jail was a terrible black mark on Martha's glossy image. I picked up the phone, and slowly, hesitantly, with trembling fingers, dialed the only number I could.

If only you could see the mess you have made.

the sisters reach out...

We have heard heartbreaking reports from our friends around the country that the events of the past week have caused irreversible and devastating damage to their blog statistics.

Being the wholesome, decent human beings we are, and in the interests of rebuilding from this tragedy, we have decided to donate half of the traffic from this blog to those needier than us. Please, please, please, show some love and click around. Leave some comments. Your fellow bloggers are in pain.

love letter

From: Blogger Support <[email protected]>
To: [email protected]
Date: Sep 8, 2005 5:19 PM
Subject: Re: [#270239] Notice of Copyright Infringement

Hello,

Thank you for following up. Upon further review of taleoftwosisters.blogspot.com, it appears that the prior notice may have been sent in error. We apologize for the confusion and any inconvenience.

Sincerely,
Blogger Support
--

Blogger, I have one thing left to say: I know it's embarrassing to admit, but I think there are meds now for premature ejaculation...you should really have your "support" team look into them.

dear diary, i'm at fat camp

The summer of 87 was hot and dense, colored loud like the t-shirts we had to wear all day: purple for girls, orange for boys. We clashed on sunny afternoons, playing team sports like tug-of-war, where the fattest side always won, and that side usually had me on it.  But in the night time we embraced clumsily behind bushes, tongues in ears, hands slipped under elastic waist pants, navigating rolls of fat to get to moist, hidden treasures.

 

I kept a diary then, filled with pages of youthful scrawl in sparkly gel pen and thousands of pictures of me trying to look thin.  Obviously, not much about me has changed, besides my Photoshop skills and the price tags on my clothes.

 

Here's one of my favorite little excerpts:

 

"Dear Diary,

 

I'm still at fat camp, and it kinda sux cuz I have 2 hide all my chocklate barz under the mattriss and they get all icky-sticky and gross. But it's kind of good too cuz then Annie goes "ewwwww" and she wont steel them like she allways does at home!!! She steels my boyfrendz too sumtimes. Like, last summer, I wuz totally dating this boy for like, SIX DAYZ wich is a pretty long time 4 me!!! and then 1 day I snuck outside to dig up my top-secrit stash of cheetoz and then i screemed even louder than i screem for ice creem cuz there she was on her back getting fingerd by my bf!!  I think I shood spel Cheetoz "CHEAToz" from now on because thats wat they remind me of, cheaters.

 

So then I got back at them both by sukking Jon L's boner the next nite (Annie had the hugest crush on him for, like, EVER). It was the thickest one I had ever seen!!!! I wuz creeming in my Barbie pantiez just looking at it lol.  I didn't want him to cum in my mouth cuz that's yucky so i let him cum all over my pritty face insted!!! It wuz soooooo hott. i cant wait til he stiks it in my butt.

 

NEWAY... camp is more fun this year cuz ppl no me and i'm super super popular! yay me!!! the boyz think i am so hott and they all want to stik it you no wear, BUT (hee hee) i am saving that for Jon L. my sissy will be so jelus lol!!!!"

 

Already you can see my genius writing talents emerging.  "Cheatoz"... wasn't I so cute and precocious? No wonder I knew I was going to be famous.

we're not completely heartless

...we donated to america's second harvest for hurricane relief. Yes, shiite's phucked up, y'all. We did our part, and will continue doing it as best we can, and you should also do yours - but forgive us if we choose to leave the social and political commentary for more reliable, intelligent sources.

people who said it much better:

heather and jessica @ go fug yourself (lots of awesome links. go. here. now.)

our lovely friend, seamus.

seenster dot com.

blurbomat and dooce.

and

the cnn help center

the soundtrack of your life

I know you've all seen House of Rock by now; I am positive. Soundtracks make, and break movies: no matter how brilliant the screenplay, how superb the direction, or how raunchy the lead actors off-screen adultery is, watching a movie with a terrible score is possibly the most excruciating experience in the world.

Life can be like that, too. Without the right mix of riff, lyric or emotion, you are unable to truly live. Music defines your soul; it floods your brain with pungent memory. You got the crap phucked out of you by Jimmy Johnson in the back of his 82 Bronco to that one. You and your friends got drunk in Cancun and ended up on Girls Gone Wild Volume, Sixty-Four. You don't remember that day.

Everyone should have a LifeTrack. I know you are all waiting like heroin addicts at the methadone clinic for mine...I'll administer this one slowly.

Sia, "Breathe Me"
Help, I have done it again, I have been here many times before. Hurt myself again today, and, the worst part is there's no one else to blame...Be my friend. Hold me, wrap me up. Unfold me. I am small. I'm needy. Warm me up. And breathe me...

Iron and Wine, "Such Great Heights"
They will see us waving from such great heights, "Come down now," they'll say. But everything looks perfect from far away, "Come down now," but we'll stay.

Jet, "Cold Hard Bitch" AKA "Annie's Watch Me Strip Then Phuck Your Brains Out Song"
Cold hard bitch, Just a kiss on the lips, and I was on my knees. I'm waiting, give me...Cold hard bitch, She was shakin' her hips, that's all that I need...

The Bangles, "Eternal Flame"
Close your eyes and give me your hand; do you feel my heart beating, do you understand? Do you feel the same, am I only dreaming...Or is this burning an eternal flame?

Avril Lavigne, "He Wasn't"
Uh, uh, Hey, hey; Uh, uh, uh, uh, uh, uh, hey, hey; Uh, uh, hey, hey; uh, uh, uh, uh, uh, uh, hey, hey

Fiona Apple, "Criminal"
I’ve been a bad bad girl, I’ve been careless with a delicate man. And it’s a sad sad world, When a girl can break a boy...just because she can. Don’t you tell me to deny it, I’ve done wrong and I want to
Suffer for my sins. I’ve come to you ’cause I need guidance to be true...and I just don’t know where I can begin.

Coldplay, "Yellow"
Your skin...Oh yeah your skin and bones...turn into something beautiful. D'you know for you i bleed myself dry? For you i bleed myself dry.

Nine Days, "Story of A Girl"
Your clothes never wear as well the next day, and your hair never falls in quite the same way...but you never seem to run out of things to say...

Enya, "Orinoco Flow (Sail Away)"
We can reach, we can beach far beyond the Yellow Sea...we can sail, we can sail,(sail away, sail away, sail away)...from Peru to Cebu feel the power of Babylon...we can sail, we can sail, (sail away, sail away, sail away) we can sail, we can sail...

Ben Folds Five, "Song For The Dumped"
So you wanted to take a break...slow it down some and have some space? Well phuck you too! Give me my money back...give me my money back, you bitch. I want my money back! (And don't forget to give
me back my black T-Shirt)

Crash Test Dummies, "Mmm-mmm-mmm-mmm"
She couldn't quite explain it, they'd always just been there. Mmm, Mmm, Mmm, Mmm...Mmm, Mmm, Mmm, Mmm...

Madonna, "Take A Bow"
Make them laugh, it comes so easy, when you get to the part where you're breaking my heart. Hide behind your smile, all the world loves a clown. Wish you well, I cannot stay...you deserve an award for the role that you played. No more masquerade, you're one lonely star...

I could go on forever.

What you got?

healing

This morning, I awoke with the dawn. I felt the soft, warm sunlight dancing over my exquisitely sculpted cheekbones and perfectly placed freckles; I enjoyed my body embraced by the luminous sunlight. I flirted once with the idea of naming my freckles, but then I got distracted. Maybe I will one day. Being temporarily distracted is my specialty, and this morning was no exception. For a split second, I forgot about you, and basked in the rays of sun…and then reality set back in, and I realized that it was not you snoring softly beside me; it was Hobbes.  Again, two weeks after our two weeks, I was crushed. I felt my world come crashing to a halt.

I packed up my powerbook and Hobbes and headed over to The Grove to try and get my mind off things. Writing would help. Coffee would help. Three pounds of Bodega Chocolate would help. I wished I could go to Magnolia with Steph, the two of us indulging in soul-soothing cupcakes the way we always used to.  A tear slid down my creamy cheek.

I stopped at Coffee Bean on the way there, and as I was getting out of the CLK, my blackberry shrilled a familiar, warm ring. Avril Lavigne. An email. From Steph.

I know how you woke up this morning, pathetic and depressed and weepy. I understand how you feel sweetheart, I really do, but it's been three weeks, and it's time to move on. At this point you know what you need to do.

Get under another man. It's the only way.

Dazed, I opened the door of CB, plunging into the familiar, dark brown aroma, trying to dispel my disbelief. What had Steph just written to me? She can be so harsh, so cold. She doesn't understand. You were my world, and you discarded me like a cheap Fendi knockoff.

I stood in line, waiting to order enough coffee and coconut cake to feed all my fans (and I have a lot of fans), when fate brushed the seat of my True Religion jeans.  I spun and stared.  He was standing there, smiling apologetically, holding his wallet.  It was fat with bills.  I wanted to ask him what he did for a living, but you don't ask perfect strangers questions like that, especially at the Coffee Bean on a traumatic morning, with heartbreak on your sleeve like blood from a fresh wound.  I didn't want to seem needy or desperate, so I turned around, gazed hungrily at the menu, plotting my next move.  His wallet was so fat.

I ordered, then stepped to the left.  He shuffled up, now standing next to me.  Our heads turned to each other as if our eyes were magnets, and our gazes locked for a precious second.  He was older, metallic-haired, with deep lines sketched across his face.  I looked down, and he knew I was really looking sideways at him.  I could sense his smile.  Then I noticed his wedding ring, and laughed.
    "What?" His voice was scratchy and a little quavery.  He was nervous.  I knew he liked me.
    "You're married."
    "So?"
    "So you were flirting with me."
    He laughed. "Listen, Red, I haven't said a word to you."
    "I can feel it. You want me."
    He hesitated, fumbled with his cane a little, looked at his wallet. "How much?"

Then my mountain of cake arrived, and when I looked back, he was gone.  Sighing softly, I picked up my delicious burden and struggled out the door.  When I got to my car, he was leaning on it, breathing heavily from his trip across the street. Waiting, watching the door I came through.  Waiting for me. He wanted me.  I was on the long, twisting road to recovery; Steph would be proud of this first step.  I smiled as I opened the passenger door, gingerly helped him into his seat.  I was going to sleep with a married man.  A man who had options, who was weighing his conscience against sweet temptation the way I had weighed my morals against his wallet, but who, at the end of the day, knew a good bargain when he saw one.

mid-insertion crisis

Last night, I invited my chiclets over to my Upper East Side apartment for one of our famous martinis-and-masturbation sessions.  We lounged on Jonathan Adler furniture in strategically elongated positions, nibbled on sushi, and compared our numbers.  I'm not talking caloric intake, our Hot or Not scores, or the number of Hermes scarves we wanted to own by age thirty.  I'm talking lovers, phuck buddies, one night stands.  The odd bathroom rendezvous at a club opening.

My sister worries about her number like she worries about her weight, chewing away her manicure at three am, nerves frayed like split ends.  She drunk-dials her ex-boyfriends: "Keep me company tonight, I'm alone, aching."  What she means is, of course: "Keep my mouth busy so I won't think about freshly microwaved Krispy Kreme donuts dripping with sugary satisfaction."  Annie would sooner taste the familiarity of a formerly-loved penis than a strange, possibly uncircumsized one.  She rationalizes: "It doesn't count if he's already spent days stretching my rosebud, does it? What's one more assphucking?"

I don't care enough to memorize my number; shiite, I can't even count that high.  I've opened slender, freshly-waxed legs for men I phucked once or twice in the meat packing district, thinking it was safe without regard to how many of my friends they've slept with in the meantime.  It was never done just to see if I still have it, and I'm absolutely positive those MILSM (men I let sodomize me) care about me just as deeply as I care about them, but it still seems a tad risqué.

Because so many of my exes are still in my little black genuine crocodile leather book, they will all be hereafter referred to as MILSMs.  It's also because I'm tired of sending the same reply message to all those is-that-anal-sxe-post-about-me? emails. "No, it's about me. What else could it be about?"  I'm no stuck-up JAP, clearly, but now is not the time for bathroom lovers to start thinking they're phuck buddies.