Samantha Ronson is planning on writing a book, sources tell E! Online. “It’s supposed to be about her, allegedly,” the source said. “But come on, you know Lindsay will be all over that book. She’s the only one people want to read about.” Michael Lohan is enraged by the idea that the godless concubine of his meal-ticket daughter might exploit her by penning a tell-all. “People never even knew who Samantha Ronson was until she met Lindsay,” he scoffed. But, as usual, we know better than him. Samantha is from better stock than that. She is artsy. She is planning on writing something literary. How do we know this? We happen to have received a portion of the proposal.*
We go to Los Angeles. We go to New York. Hurtling back and forth through the atmosphere in a tin can; moving between time zones as if it will stop us from dying. 1Oak. Beatrice. Bar Pitti. Food arrives. It is perfect; but we ignore it. That is what we want, to be perfect and ignored, except for that we don’t.
Lindsay sleeps like a baby, bottom in the air. Her strawberry blonde hair catches the light of the sun as it rises behind her, setting it aflame. She will wake up soon, will demand her smoothie. But for now she is still. Like a still life. Of what does she dream, and of whom? Wilmer? Riley. Harry? Pink Taco? She snuffles, stirs. A thin line of drool escapes her lips and dribbles out, leaving a moist smear on the hotel linens, iridescent like a Swarovski crystal, or the trail left behind by a slug.
*Just kidding, we made this up.