WELCOME TO HELLYWOOD CH.1 - EAT ICE CREAM
What the hell are you doing?
Surgery from some weirdo named Dr. Skin? Seriously? Is this how low you’ve sunk? You told yourself that you’d never go down this road. You made a promise to yourself years ago that you wouldn’t fall into this trap – that you wouldn’t let Hollywood change you, and twist you, and morph you into something you don’t want to be. Years ago you told yourself that you were better than this.
No, you can’t do this.
You won’t do this.
“The doctor can see you tomo…” The receptionist on the other end of the phone is in midsentence when you hang up on her.
Leaning forward, you tap on the glass separating you from the limo driver. It immediately slides into the seat.
“Take me home.”
Less than thirty minutes later you find yourself curled up in bed with a tub of ice cream in one hand, a remote control in the other, and a serving spoon so large it looks like something dug up at the excavation site of some ancient civilization. The glow of your flat screen television on the opposite end of the room is the only light in the room.
You’re well aware of the fact that the ice cream is a temporary solution, but so what. It’ll make you feel better. At least it’s not permanent. You can jog it off tomorrow morning. At least you won’t be throwing away your morals and going back on a promise.
The forty-five year old idiot on channel seven that’s sporting a pair of low-rider jeans and the haircut of a kid half is age is reporting on the premiere of your movie. At one point he refers to it as your “swan song.”
You quickly turn the channel.
Channel five is more of the same.
On channel two Traywen Amber and Drevor Stone are flashing their million dollar smiles and billion dollar bodies, all while giggling like excited teenagers getting felt up for the first time and talking about how much of an “honor” it was to work with a “legend” like you.
Legend. You really hate that fucking word. You hate it even more when it spews from the mouths of half-brained idiots like Traywen and Drevor.
Drevor – what the fuck kind of name is that anyway?
You know for a fact that his real name is Don – Don Stonlowski.
Almost instantly you rip into the tub of ice cream melting away on your chest. God damn it’s good. You’re eating so fast and furious that you aren’t even sure what flavor it is. God damn it tastes good. When you finish the first tub you move onto the second. After you’ve polished off that one you inhale a third.
Fuck you, Don Stonlowski. Fuck you and your abs.
After you’ve gobbled up all the ice cream in your pantry, you dial the local grocery delivery service and order thirty more.
The woman on the phone gives you guff. “Thirty? Are you sure you want…”
“Is it your job to give me the third degree? No! It’s your job to take my order, put it in your little delivery car and drive it over!”
After slamming down the phone you feel bad about screaming at her. It’s Stonlowski’s fault, after all – that punk ass, snotty-nosed, know-it-all brat. All of this is his fault.
The hours after the ice cream arrives are a blur of gorging, self-indulgent awfulness. Before you know it your belly is filled to the brim with Rocky Road, and Strawberry, and ten or fifteen other flavors that have amassed together in a great pool of weighty, milky mush deep within your bloated belly.
Unfortunately for you, one of those ten or fifteen other flavors was called Pistachio Pudding. You were eating so fast – eating so angry - that you didn’t even notice.
The problem is, you’re allergic to pistachios. You’ve been allergic to them since you were a kid. Eating even a single pistachio can cause you to swell up and die.
Which is exactly what happens.
Fuck you, Stonlowski.