Why I Have No Gag Reflex: A Memoir

It's odd how I can't sleep in anymore.

I'ts 8:45 in the morning on a Saturday. I finally don't have to work.

Why am I up? Lord knows. Perhaps it's some indication of age and habit [I wrote an entry about habit/addiction etc, and completely failed to notice that when you wake up sometimes becomes our greatest habit. Because I've gone a while without drugs, I don't drink booze all the time--only in times of recreation--but the time that I wake up seems to be a habit I can't break] Which, for those of you following from home, SUCKS. I'm giving myself an hour to watch TV and stuff, and then I really need to get some sleep.

Dude, I'm watching Rome on HBO on Demand. The amount of people who eviscerate themselves on this show is astounding. I guess killing yourself in non-horrific ways had yet to be invented--

"You mean if I just cut my wrists like this I'll bleed out in a minute? You're talking crazy. I'm just going to stick to the old fashioned way, slicing open my stomach so I can hold my intestines in my hand. You know, like a normal person."

Also, people have sex ALL THE TIME in front of the servants [on this show]. This, of course, being before the time of the creation of "The Memoir." It also helps if your servants can't read or write. Princess Diana should have thought of that before hiring some of her folks. It annoys the crap out of me, someone who loves to write, when people like this get book deals. It's like Kevin Federline getting to make a rap album. Umm...you're not a writer, you're not an artist, you're a fucking leech and you come to suck on the brains of America. People wonder where all the values, all the real talent, has gone. And it's somehow our fault, because in this modern world, it is normal to be oddly fascinated and completely supportive of people who have no right and no talent to be in the public eye, but somehow wind up there because of celebrity residue like the stain on good 'ole Monica's dress. Why? To watch them make rich asses out of themselves. And then feel better about our mundane lives.

I'm not knocking it here, people. I am a perpetrator of it as well, seeing as I spend a lot of time on this site. I just hate how anybody who's slightly famous gets to write a book. I bet if I blew Brad Pitt or Prince William or something, they'd probably publish this blog. And I'd go on The View and talk about my struggle to make it in this world [and being oddly evasive about why people were interested in me in the first place--i.e., blowing the Prince of Wales].

Then I'd start a handbag line.

Then a perfume.

Then a clothing line.

And then I'll retire at the age of 27, rich beyond my wildest dreams, and all because I gave head to a cute British boy, who just happened to be heir to the throne of the British Empire.

And that's how I feel about modern celebrity.

I should try to get some sleep now. Oddly enough, I keep dreaming about celebrities.