Write about me

“Write about me,” simpered the well-dressed woman in silver, “Aw, you guys can do it if you want, you know.” She cooed, pouting her sheer lacquered lips. The scribe expanded for a second, pleased with the attention. She was the Diva of the Social Kingdom and she was at his feet. It was a good feeling. Momentary though it was.
She posed, her hands on her evening purse, her silk shirt simmering. Click, click, click. It was a good feeling. For tomorrow the world would call to wonder how she did it, again.

She would laugh casually, her voice tinkling down the line, sounding oh so blasé. “I don’t know really,” she would say in that ‘oh but you should know’ tone of voice, “They are there everywhere I go. And they come running after me for my pictures.”

Voices would be laced with envy, some with thinly veiled disgust. Some would cringe a bit, roll over low just so that they could accompany her to the next do. She would consider THAT, and perhaps do just that – take along a bit of company for an ego massage. Sometimes it did wonders for your own self.

And then, it gave her a bit of a high when she bumped into the now ‘fading’ Diva, a bit outdated in her loud dull pink lipstick, and what would now be slightly ‘tarty’ evening wear. Her self at the moment would soar high past her Manolo Blahniks, past the Bangkok-bought dress, over the MAC make-up and the salon-styled hair.
The trouble she took just to be photographed.

Not that she was a bimbo really. She had a mind in between her ears, which is why, she used it to get recognised. Really.

Right now, there was this rather stars truck kid of a journo who was hanging about her, gushing about the way she looked, the way she dressed… and generally looking like she had a ‘crush’ing hangover. She would deal with it, but at the moment the admiration would come in useful. In print.