Just over a year ago, I got an anonymous e-mail that said, among other things, this:
You honestly make me sick. Keep making money off your dead dad, your dying nephew and your kids. Keep taking trips for free while your 15 minutes are still here, because eventually, people are going to see the scum money grubbing famewhore that lies underneath the fake exterior, and you’ll be yesterday’s news. Here’s hoping that’s sooner than later. Go take another Ativan, cause that’s how you cope, right?
This past weekend I tried to explain New Year’s resolutions to Emilia.
“A resolution is something that you decide that you want to do in the upcoming year. You say it out loud or write it down, on New Year’s Eve or New Year’s Day, so that everyone knows what your resolution is.”
“But you’re not supposed to tell other people your wishes.”
“It’s not a wish, really. It’s something that you want to do or have happen, and you make it happen for yourself.”
“So you don’t need stars or fairies?”
“No, you don’t need stars or fairies. You’re your own fairy.”