by Alicia Rades
When I was a teen, one of my friends in high school, knowing that I acted as a child, performed a web search on me. When she found my bio, she thought it was so awesome that she shared it with me. I became intrigued, so I searched my name on the Internet. What I found was awful. Not only were people criticizing me for leaving acting, but when a photo of my awkward teen years surfaced, they began making fun of me for the way I looked, saying that I wasn’t “celebrity material” like the other childhood actresses who were my age. I was devastated, and for a long time, I wouldn’t even look myself in the mirror, afraid all those horrible comments would come back to haunt me. I can’t imagine what it was like for the girls and boys who were still growing up in the limelight during the time they hit puberty.
They’re Liars
People who write about celebrities lie. They lie all the time. Whether they do it on purpose or not, they always seem to get the facts wrong. Believe me, you can never trust what you read online or in magazines when it comes to a celebrity’s personal life. Yes, I have experienced this, and it bites into a person’s emotions deeply when the nation gangs up on them for something they didn’t do or say, and these writers don’t give a damn. All they care about is the amount of page views and comments they get.
This occurs in several ways:
1. They twist the words celebrities say or take them out of context just to make a great headline.
2. They misinterpret quotes, not taking into account body language or sarcasm.
3. They make shit up.
They’re Untrustworthy
You know when people ask you a question, giving you their solemn word that they won’t tell anyone what you said? Did this person ever divulge your words to the entire world? When I was just seven, they did this to me, and I quickly learned that people who write about celebrities are not to be trusted. No, I will not divulge the details, because frankly, you shouldn’t really give a shit.
Needless to say, if you’re a celebrity, you quickly learn that you don’t talk to people with cameras or notepads because they are bound to stab you in the back. These are not good people, and I wouldn’t advise anyone—celebrity or not—to read what they write. You cannot trust them.
They Have No Tact Whatsoever
Honestly, the way they shove microphones, cameras, and emails in your face is simply untactful. How about the time when I was just five and journalists were questioning me at the opening of Taking Reservations? Do you know what they asked me? They didn’t ask how I liked filming the movie, what I thought of traveling to New York City, or what it was like for my character. No, the question that they focused on was what I thought of Elizabeth River’s latest sex scandal. My God, people. This is not something you ask a five-year-old. I didn’t even know what they meant at the time!
I hope that at least a few people now understand why people who write about celebrities are terrible, terrible creatures, and that they only set out to bully people, whether their article directly picks on the subject or not. It doesn’t matter either way, because they’re initiating the conversation that will bring a nation together to tear down one person’s spirit. Perhaps now you understand why I’m so fucking afraid to let anyone in and terribly frightened to love a man.
I don’t reread the post because I don’t want to edit my words in any way. I want my passion and my anger to show through. I grit my teeth, and I hit publish.
16
Although it’s only about 1:00, I wrap myself back in my blanket for comfort. My entire body is tense, and the blanket doesn’t seem to help my muscles relax, but it keeps me warm. My mind is racing with thoughts, wondering why Jacob would sleep with me, what exactly his motivations are, and what else he lied to me about. My thoughts are bouncing around in my head, but soon enough, I drift off to sleep, and I am out for hours.
When I wake, it’s still dark outside, but I rise early enough that I can still make it to my yoga session. While I begin to fight myself and make excuses not to go, I tell myself that it will help me relax. I shower, dress, and leave the apartment. Walking slowly down the sidewalk, I have a difficult time moving my body. I arrive just in time for class to begin and spread my yoga mat out in the back of the studio.
As Leanna leads us through our session for the day, I have an even more difficult time concentrating on my body than I did when I was nervous for my first date with Jacob. Today, my body isn’t shaking from anxiety; it’s trembling because I’m struggling to hold together the pieces of my broken heart. I’m far from relaxed, and as I try to force my muscles to ease, they become even tenser.
When Leanna leads us down into child’s pose, I stay there, unmoving, as the rest of the class continues into new poses. My mind is still racing, analyzing everything I know about Jacob. He seemed like a nice enough guy, but the way my body is responding to the thought of him, the more tense I become. I’m struck with fear. Fear of Jacob? Fear that he lied to me? That he’s writing a story on me? I can’t seem to place my anxiety, and I hate myself for not being able to read my own body’s signals.
As I pack up my belongings, I catch a glimpse of Jasmine and Abby, the girls I normally talk with at the beginning of the class, stealing glances at me. I try to ignore it, but I have to pass them to get out the door.
“Siobhan,” Jasmine stops me. “Are you okay? You look awful.”
“Yeah,” Abby agrees. “Do you want to go get a coffee or something?”
I guess they were watching me because they felt bad. I’m not entirely sure how awful I look, but I assume I look pretty heart broken.
I’m grateful for their offer, and it’s nice to know that they care, but I kindly refuse. “Sorry, maybe some other time. I’m just not up to it today. Thanks.” My voice is very soft, and I know that they’re catching on as they glance at each other nervously in concern for me.
“Okay, Siobhan,” Jasmine says. “Just let us know if you ever need some girl talk.”
“Sure,” I reply, but I don’t think I’ll ever be able to talk to these girls. I mean, I can hardly open up to Juliet about my problems. How can I talk with these girls I’ve only known for a few months? They’re nice and all, and we’ve grabbed coffee after yoga classes before, but I just don’t want to let them in on this.
After my yoga session, I return home and crawl back into bed. I’m grateful that Juliet has already left for work because I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and I do not look good. My hair is a mess and my face is covered in red splotches from holding back tears. I see what Jasmine and Abby were talking about now. I quickly look away, not wanting to face myself.
I really liked this guy—hell, I thought I might love him—and he turned out to be worse than any other guy I dated. I certainly got more than I bargained for with this man, and I don’t want to speak to him again.
I mull these thoughts over in my mind, and I just can’t take it anymore. I should not be wasting my time crying over some bastard who doesn’t give a shit about who I really am.
I get out of bed and try my hardest to put Jacob out of my mind as I dive into my work. My efforts start to take effect, and I nearly forget about Jacob as I tend to my tasks. When I take a break from my clients to update my social media accounts and my blog, I discover several very upsetting things.
First, my mother’s Facebook status announces how proud she is of her youngest daughter for getting engaged. This is the first thing that sets me off. My mother has never praised me in this way, and realizing this, my self-esteem plummets to the ground. I recognize that it probably has to do with the fact that I’ve never accomplished anything.
Sure, you might say that becoming a celebrity before you’re finished with your first decade of life is a huge accomplishment, but my parents didn’t even want me to act. Of course my mom and dad supported me in my dreams, taking me to auditions, classes, and rehearsals, but they didn’t boast about my talent or praise me in any way. All of my praise came from my costars and fans.
Don’t get me wrong. My
parents weren’t horrible people. They never took any of the money I made. They kept it in a trust fund for me until I turned 18, but it always seemed like I was struggling for their approval.
Even when I graduated with my degree, they didn’t come out to support me because my sister was graduating from high school at the same time. I see where that makes sense because my sister doesn’t live across the country from them, but it still bites.
My body flames, and I ball my hands into fits without consciously trying to. I curse my sister for finding a great guy while I’m stuck here lonely and heart broken. I hide my mother’s post, and with a sense of accomplishment, I continue my updates. It’s not even a minute later when a new issue strikes.
The next thing that gets at me is the red notification flag. When I click on it, it tells me that Jacob Bishop has accepted my friend request. Not only that, but he has also sent me a relationship request.
That bastard! I quickly go to his profile and unfriend him, blocking him in the process.
The way I take out my fury through this action leaves me feeling triumphant, and I become more productive as the day wears on.
I make the mistake of taking a break from my work, and it leaves me time to think again. With thoughts flying through my mind, I create a new blog post.
June 15
What Do You Do About Love?
By Siobhan Spencer
You know when you fall for a guy and he ends up being a complete bastard? Yes, you know what I’m talking about. You’ve been there, too.
Well, what do you do when you can’t get him out of your mind? What do you do about love?
P.S. Is 10 hours enough time to fall in love with someone?
I know that this simple post is all I need, and soon enough, my followers are going to begin raiding my comment section with answers, and all I can hope for is that I stumble across a few spectacular pieces of advice.
I push my glasses up my face, and I’m ready to get back to work.
As I’m admiring my progress, I hear a buzz come from my dresser, and then my phone begins singing to me. I rise, not sure what to expect from it because few people ever text me. It’s not that I’m antisocial or anything, but I do most of my communication via email. When I check it, it’s a text from Mackenzie. I open the message, and I see that she hasn’t just sent a text, but there’s a photo attached.
This is the dress mom and I picked out yesterday. Can you believe I’m getting married!? –M
No, no I cannot. I bite my lower lip in anger and narrow my eyes at the screen. My sister, who is four years younger than me, is getting married before I am, and I hate her for this. Not only is she getting married, but she looks spectacular in her wedding dress, and she actually has the boobs to hold up the goddamn strapless beauty.
I chuck my phone across the room, and as it smashes against the wall, the hard protective case pops off of it. All the pieces fall to my bed. I leave it there and get back to work. At the moment, I’m not even considering my anger issues. It’s not me with the problem. It’s Mackenzie and her goddamn fairytale life. I tell myself this, but I know deep down that I don’t believe it. What is my problem? I should be happy for Mackenzie, shouldn’t I? The whole situation just seems so unfair, though.
I work for several more hours, hoping that nothing else will cause an outburst. I just don’t want to deal with any of this right now. Why can’t I rewind to two weeks ago and simply enjoy a night out at a club with Juliet instead of crawling beneath my sheets and crying over a man who faked his interest in me? I almost want to go out, but I can’t because one, it’s too early in the day, and two, I don’t want to go out alone.
I’m shocked when the doorbell rings around 3:00. I’m confused, not knowing exactly what to expect, but with my bad mood, I suspect that I won’t like it. When I open the door, a boy—probably about 19—holding a bouquet of red roses stands in the hallway, and I know immediately who sent them.
“Siobhan Spencer,” the delivery boy says. He butchers my first name. I don’t even bother correcting him.
It’s a different guy from last time, but he’s wearing the same attire as the man who delivered the yellow roses. This guy has dark skin, and his hair is cut extremely short. He is thin with a young boyish look to his face, and he gives a friendly smile.
“I don’t want them,” I snap, taking my anger out on this young man who clearly doesn’t deserve it.
“I’m sorry.” He takes a step back. “I’m just the delivery guy.”
“Fine,” I grit my teeth, and I snatch the roses from him. Back inside the apartment, I take the few steps to the kitchen and stop at the breakfast bar. Frantically, I search around for a crushing device, and my eyes fall upon the meat tenderizer in Juliet’s collection of kitchen utensils. I grip it tightly in my hand, lay the bouquet of roses on the counter, and I smash away, taking my frustration out on yet another group of organisms that aren’t at fault.
When I’m done, I take a step back and admire my handy work. The roses bleed across the counter top.
Take that! I shout in my mind, and I think about how this scene so accurately represents the way my heart feels at this moment. I feel powerful after obliterating the gift, and I stand back to admire my handiwork. I give the roses a few more whacks before returning the meat tenderizer to its proper position on the counter.
I sweep the crushed roses into the garbage can and finally realize that there’s a note attached to one of the stems. Curious, I read it.
Thanks for last night. Looking forward to tomorrow.
-Jacob
Thinking fast, I dig through one of the drawers in the kitchen where we keep our matches. I strike one of them against the box, and it ignites. I hold Jacob’s note over the flame until it lights, and then I set it on the counter, watching the edges wither away to ash. I once again notice how the situation so closely bears a resemblance to my broken heart.
When there’s no paper left to burn, I toss as much of the mess into the trash as I can, and then I wet a wash cloth and wipe down the crime scene, leaving no trace of evidence on the counter top.
I’m satisfied, feeling as if I’ve sufficiently earned my revenge, and I return to my bedroom to finish up my last few duties of the day for my clients.
17
When Juliet arrives back at the apartment, she sees that my bedroom door is open and takes this opportunity to finally speak to me. Thank God I didn’t leave the crushed roses on the counter. Then she’d really have something to inquire about, and I don’t want to talk about any of it.
“You totally got laid last night,” she sings. “Jacob had that post-sex glow to him today. It was so obvious. I told you that you two would hit it off.”
I glare at her with an evil stare.
“What’s wrong? Wasn’t it good?” Of course Juliet would focus in on the sensual part of it.
“Let’s just say there won’t be a third date,” I snarl, and I’m again taking my anger out on someone who doesn’t deserve it, although I am willing to believe that Juliet does deserve it because she was the one who set us up. I don’t hold back on her.
She takes a step back from me and holds her hands up in a surrendering stance. “Okay,” she says, elongating the vowels. “Clearly someone has something up her ass, although I don’t understand why. Jacob seemed happy enough.”
“Yeah, well, he shouldn’t,” I hiss, hoping that my tone will make her leave me alone. I really don’t want to talk about Jacob right now. In fact, I don’t want to talk about him ever. He already has enough information from me for his story.
“Look, Siobhan, whatever your problem is, you might want to go talk to him. He really likes you, and he is expecting a third date.”
Great. So she’s talked to him and he’s confided in her. What is he playing at? And sending me those goddamn flowers? What right does he have?
“I really think you should go talk to him.” She makes it sound like a suggestion, but I know she is trying to make it into a com
mand.
“Well, I really think you should mind your own goddamn business. Don’t bother setting me up with anyone ever again.” I am in full-on bitch mode, and right now, I’m not afraid to take it out on Juliet.
I rise from my computer and grasp the corner of my door. Juliet is in the doorway, but she backs away. Once she’s free of the door’s swing, I slam it. I can hear her muttering to herself behind it. “What’s her problem?”
As I’m tending to my blog comments and terribly unsatisfied with the answers I’m receiving for my latest post, What Do You Do About Love?, I hear Juliet through my wall talking to someone. I only overhear her voice, and I know she’s on the phone. I ignore it at first until I catch my name, and then I press my ear against the wall and eavesdrop on her.
“I don’t know. Siobhan won’t tell me anything. She just slammed the door in my face.” She pauses for a moment, listening to the person on the other end. “No, she said she didn’t want a third date with you. Jacob, what happened between you guys?” Pause. “I know, you two seemed so happy the other day, and I thought you two really hit it off.” Pause. “Well it’s a mystery to me, too. Maybe you should call her.” Pause. “Okay, bye.”
Juliet stops speaking, and I know she’s hung up. A few moments later, my phone comes to life and begins buzzing. I know who’s calling without looking, but I pick it up off my bed where it’s still laying and check it anyway. The caller ID says Jacob Bishop, and I hit the end button before he has a chance to leave a voicemail.
I hear Juliet’s phone ring in the other room, and I press my ear against the wall again.