America's sex symbol is a tortured woman

To ‘cure’ me after my psychotic break, my cousin Drew gave the keys to his L.A. luxury fucking condo so I could get some R & R, his words, not mine.

When I picked up the keys from the balding caretaker, he leaned in before handing them to me and whispered, She lives above you, in a way that said, I masturbate to Google images of her in that Victoria’s Secret lingerie set.

I’ve been here for a month. I have more juice on Her than People magazine could ever dream of. I have mapped out the shape of her penthouse apartment by her delicate footsteps echoing through my ceiling. I know the sound of her alcohol addiction: the cellar door creaks. I hear the occasional scream and I know that blonde-angel-rehab-Barbie or whatever She calls him, has her bent over the kitchen island, tugging at her ponytail that is wrapped around his wrist.

But for America’s sex symbol, She doesn’t fuck him that often.

Tonight, She’s out among Hollywood glitterati in a black plunging gown that says I have eyes and ears on everything, and I know I’ll be woken when She returns from the Vanity Fair after-party at five am, so drunk She’s making Drew’s 12-carat chandelier tinkle, so depressed I hear her wail to Alanis Morrissette while removing her makeup.

I read in Glamour UK that She has contamination OCD, which checks out by the trail of maids that travel to and from her apartment and the constant hum of the Hoover. They photoshop the blood off her knuckles but they can’t fool me. I hear the pipes gush as She scrubs her hands for the seventh time.

America’s sex symbol is a tortured woman.

That makes two of us. I’ve put my bed just under hers. When She pours herself a G & T, so do I.

When She moans with her magic wand down her jeans, I pull out mine and join her.

I wish She would dump that mole-rat She calls a fiancé. Couples therapy is a scam. I can show her what incurable looks like.