“I don’t understand… this has got to be illegal or something. This is false advertising, at the very least!” Stephanie exclaimed into her hot pink bejeweled smartphone with growing exacerbation. “Oh yeah!?!? Well I’m calling my lawyer and you can bet you haven’t heard the last of Stephanie Stevens!” she screamed at the phone before throwing it across the room. Sinking into her overstuffed leather sofa, Stephanie folded her arms and screwed up her face into her biggest ‘somone-needs-to-bring-me-a-cocktail-now’ pout. The self-indulgent pity-party was about to begin.
For years Stephanie had waited for her life’s story to be released. In her mind, it was a foregone conclusion that one would be written. As she saw it, her life was practically made to be on the best-seller list. Born into one of America’s ‘royal families’, otherwise known as celebrities, Stephanie followed in her mother’s reality star footsteps and had fallen hard along the way. Boozing, drug use, sleeping around, she had done it all- and made sure a camera had captured everything. Then at a particularly low moment in her life (a drug-induced 24-hour marriage to a sideshow clown), Stephanie’s expansive home was destroyed by a fire caused by several earthquakes in the area. Believing it was a sign from above to change her ways, Stephanie decided to pledge the rest of her life to helping those in need- starting with homeless cats.
It had only been two months since discovering her philanthropic side, but Stephanie had received great publicity for her efforts, all to benefit her furry friends of course. So when news broke that the renowned author responsible for numerous bestsellers based on the lives of celebrities like Cher, Madonna and the Beibs, would be releasing an already much hyped novel entitled: Stephanie, she had immediately assumed it was about her. The fact that she had never actually met or spoken to the author seemed like an insignificant detail.
Upon hearing the news of her book release, Stephanie immediately preordered 500 copies of the book, and now, sitting in her living room surrounded by boxes stacked to the ceiling, she felt like screaming- again. The book was not about her.
Throwing another copy of Stephanie across the room, she felt slightly better. Had Stephanie read any further than the book’s main title she would have seen the following words in slightly smaller print below the block letters that spelled her name: …Lady Gaga revealed.
“Who the hell cares about Lady Gaga, anyway?” she scoffed.
The Not So Fantastic Reality:
The above story was inspired by the following tidbits I encountered today:
ONE: Am I the only ding dong out there that still gets a little excited every time I see my name on something? I mean it’s not my name, but you know, Samantha (I realize there are others out there… sadly). While browsing through our local Goodwill the other day I happened upon a little book with my name blazed in bright yellow script on the front cover Samantha. It had to be mine. I started reading this little gem tonight and as silly as it may sound, I actually hoped that this Samantha character of the novel would bear some resemblance to moi. For some twisted reason I am convinced that I will one day go to open a book and find that the character imprisoned within is my literary doppelganger. In this Samantha penned by Jean Carew and published in 1969, the resemblances were, sadly not there. Beyond both of us sporting a mane of red tresses and having a hankering for arranging flowers, this chick is clearly my inferior… then again I’ve only read 26 pages so maybe I should wait to pass judgement.
Love & Squirrels.