those were the days:

Once upon a time, a much younger version of me went to New York. I was so sad. About what, I’m not sure. I was gaining weight, smoking cigarettes, binge drinking, bloated, unsure of my sense of style. I was lost.

I had been so focused and strong and happy only months before. What happened? I had moved from la to New York and from there, I was offered the chance to live in Tokyo for 4 months. In Tokyo, I worked as a model, I worked a lot. They liked pale skin, blue eyes and dark hair. I was getting boobs though and my agency was not happy about this. My feet were a bit too big for their liking too. What could I do? I was just a person.

I barely ate, had to be weighed every day in a g-string. Every part of me was measured. I understand. I’m not complaining. Just telling a story. 


I was a business transaction. I was on a contract. I had to make sure I made/fulfilled my contract-my contract was based on estimates the agency had made (before they flew me to Tokyo) of how much they thought I would work while I was there. A photo and video of me was shown to fashion designers and other various clients that might hire me. These clients would say whether or not they liked me and if they were likely hire me. I was miserable in Japan. 

At first it was exciting, but the measuring and weigh ins took their toll. But this was my decision. If I was going to call myself a model (a, b, or c grade) this is what I had to deal with. I’m tall. So I did lots of shows. I worked with cool designers like issey miyake, did commercials-sony,panasonic,etc, and worked with others whose names I might never remember.

While in Tokyo, I lost my NY sublet on Charles Street in the west village. That fucking bitch subletter pulled the rug out from under me. Is it ok if I call her a cunt for doing that? It is a real word. It exists to be used for the right occasions. It was the day before I was leaving Tokyo to go back home to New York and she called me to say she was changing the locks and giving it to her cousin. Thanks for the warning you dirty cuntrag life ruiner!

I figured it out. Flew back to la instead. Stayed with my mom for 2 weeks. Found an apt in Beachwood canyon. And started booking commercials. Always with the intention of moving back to NY. 


2 months later,I went back to New York to visit a boy I had a crush on. I made a reservation at some cheap hotel I’d heard about in the back pages of the village voice. I was an idiot. Or just super young. In reality, the hotel was a shit hole filled with the borderline homeless(have you ever read ‘down and out in Paris in London’?). a place that provided cheap rooms where a hooker could take a client. 

I rode up in the rinky-dink elevator. a jalopy of an elevator. A big brute of a man stared down at me. He was super scary and I think he was drooling while he stared at me (not to toot my own horn. I’m sure he would have drooled over any girl he was planning on killing with his bare hands). 

We arrived at my floor and I ran to my room. Get this- The peephole was filled with toilet paper. Someone had removed the glass. The door bashed into the bed the minute I opened it. The room was as big as an American apparel dressing room. But not nearly as modern and bright. There was a knock on the door. Which progressed into a threatening banging! “Let me in miss. You better let me in!” It was the guy from the elevator!

I pushed my bag AND a chair against the door. I thought about climbing out the window but it was sealed shut AND it was double glass or something super solid and unbreakable. I know this cuz I punched it with my fist. 

I heard heavy breathing and laughing outside the door. The banging continued. This wasn’t a time to cry. I had to be calm. And I was too scared to cry. I was a ghostly shade of white and panic stricken. I crawled under the bed, yelling “get away from here! I’m calling the police!” This would have been difficult, considering the fact that there was no phone in the room AND I didn’t have my cell. I was going to get raped to death. I was FREAKING OUT! 

Miraculously, the banging stopped; I grabbed my bag, ran out of the room like a bullet, down the 8 flights of stairs. I let the front desk keep the $200 I had given them for what I planned to be a week long stay. (to be continued)



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