Clément

Paris, October 2010

Some people are born rich. Some people work hard to become rich. Some people are lucky. And then, there's me. A modern day Cinderella. I used to work very hard. Now, I give what I have been given without ever asking for it, my body, to the one who pays the most. I dream of power. I get vanity as a consolation prize. Often covered up as a business meeting or a training session abroad. Often substituting real feelings, I get my dreams of future substitued by an appearance of the present.

A suite at George V, personal drivers in all directions. Travelling the World around only to see the bathroom of a hotel, prestigious or less... Only wearing Italian designs, only paying by cash... Secret but ostentatious, sometimes I steal some love from someone who is not afraid to show up with me. A little ugly duckling fearless enough to show me off. That carries me around like a trophy wife. I am his social success. Poor slut of me. 

If my body and my soul could be split in two, we would be two very different people. If my soul had a face, it would be without any interest, just a bitter and plain face of an empty man. But if my body had a soul at level of it's beauty, everybody would come drink my words of joy and sweetness. My soul survives on my body. My body covers up for my soul. Six feet one inch, hundred and fifty four pounds, jacket size 48, shoe size 44. Strawberry blond hair, blue grey eyes, spotless skin. A contract with L'Oréal , Prada and Gucci. My boyfriend is a fashion photographer. My parents are former proletarians. My parents in law are extremely 'bourgeois'. Every Sunday we go for a family lunch. Monday through Friday I work with my boyfriend. I read three books in my life: 'The Little Prince' by Saint Exupéry and two books by Loïc Prigent edited by Vogue. People have me for an intellectual when I wear my fake Tom Ford glasses to stop my sleepless party nights from showing in my eyes. Empty headed, feelingless in my heart and the absence of ambition play savagely with the remainder of my brain softened by the use of powders and pills, regular alcohol cleaning and hailing to rhythmic electronic music stupidity between catwalks and clubs.  Sitting on an Armani Casa sofa in a grey Dolce&Gabbana T-shirt and Audigier sweatpants watching 'Secret Story' on my LCD screen (without understanding what the abbreviation means) asking myself if I'm in anyway happier or more fulfilled than those on the other side of the screen in this twisted version of Big Brother. Intelligence, fame, beauty? I don' think so. A suicide would be so easy. Around a hundred grieving people would go listening to my favorite songs. Well, actually, they would just meet, get drunk, listen to their own music, get closer to the final destination and pretend it makes them feel closer to me...too easy. I'm going to kickstart again tomorrow. A sharp look prepared by my stylist at my last shooting for a typical fashion journalist day: Croissant, cab, fashion show, photos in the street, cab, fashion show, cab, a salad between two shows, I need to fit into my skinny leather jeans, even if I they're stretch by Jitrois, but we all prefer Owens, don't we? A party with everybody. Kiss on a cheek, kiss on a cheek, kiss on a mouth, hysterical screaming, 'Absolutely Fabulous' sweetie darling, Champagne, vodka, mojito, rhum, splash the toilet after emptying your stomach, oh, a dick in my mouth, Maxime's, Club Sandwich, BLT...Kiss, kiss, French Kiss..cab, coma, home, coma, wake up, amnesia.