Post by leah on Dec 15, 2012 7:52:01 GMT -5
Day 01:
Dear Diary,
Oh my gosh, you would not believe what's going on right now. If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn't have believed it myself!
But before I totally freak out, I should probably start from the beginning.
So, I had just finished talking to Jonah on my cellphone, after I got out of the apartment. Luckily for me, Jonah's a bit of a pushover, especially when I use my sultry voice, so he didn't give me a hard time about being gone all night. Besides, I'd totally be lying if I said that this is the first time that it's happened.
I didn't really have much planned for the day - I just did a high profile shoot for Adidas, showing off some of their athletic gear. They liked my style a lot. In fact, the exec slipped a handsome bonus onto my paycheque and told me that they'd be interested in offering me an exclusive contract. They wanted to see what kind of buzz the ads generate before they actually put anything in writing, but until then they'd essentially be paying me to do nothing at all.
They'd also given me some complimentary Adidas jogging stuff to wear. I pitched it in the trash can on my way out. I wouldn't be caught dead wearing those shapeless rags. Fact of the matter is, I only wear Puma.
I took the subway back towards East Village, and decided to pass through Times Square on the way. Right there, up among the hundreds of billboards and lights, was a picture of yours truly, workin' up a sweat in Adidas apparel.
I spent the morning traipsing around my favorite haunts: Saks Fifth Avenue, Bloomingdales, Macy's. Not too long ago, I couldn't have afforded anything on those racks - Jonah doesn't make a lot of money doing... er... whatever it is that Jonah does. (You'd think I would know what my husband's job is, but apparently it's never come up in conversation.) But now that I've got Adidas wrapped around my little finger, things are gonna change.
While I was admiring myself in a slinky little black number, my cell phone buzzed. My group of girlfriends had heard about the Adidas gig, and they wanted to have lunch to celebrate.
They're the perfect group of friends. Like me, they're models. Unlike me, they're hideous. They're entitled snippy little harpies who slept their way into the industry, and they've only got a small handful of functioning brain cells between them. The conversation's about as interesting as a box of bran flakes, but I still get together with them every now and again, just to keep score. Modelling gigs, new outfits, celebrity hook-ups; you name it, I do better than the rest of the girls put together - which means that from every conceivable angle, I quantifiably win at life. Now there's a technique you won't find any self-help book, ladies.
We decided to have lunch at a restaurant in Battery Park. The girls all gabbled and squealed about my new opportunity, and how lucky I was. Please. As if luck had anything to do with it. There are four reasons why I got that job, and the first two are my hair and my face.
"So," said Carlissa, expectantly. Her beady little eyes were glinting that particular glint that Carlissa gets when she thinks she's being "delightfully wicked." Carlissa always says things like "delightfully wicked," because she thinks it makes her sound cultured. She's wrong. It just makes her sound idiotic. "I hear that you left the soiree (See what I mean? "Soiree.") with a certain someone."
I took a sip of my ice water, ignoring her.
"Come on, Leah," whined Melanie. "You can't just waltz out of a party with Alessandro Romero on your arm and not tell us anything!"
I nearly choked on an ice cube. Alessandro Romero was an Italian fashion designer, one of the most famous in the entire world.
"Pfft," huffed Diane. "The way he was groping her when they got into his limo, I think the rest of the story is pretty obvious."
I put down the glass, slowly. The ice cubes clinked a little, because my hand was trembling. The rest of the story was obvious. I had met Alessandro Romero, gotten drunk with him, then gone back to his place... and then I had sucker-punched him in the throat.
Oh shit oh shit oh shit.
As unbelievable as it sounds, things actually somehow managed to get worse, when a few distinct screams began to rise above the general hubbub of the tourist throngs.
I looked up, and spotted a few people running for their lives. At first I thought they were filming a movie or something - it happens all the time in Manhattan - but there were no cameras around. A gunshot cracked through the air - it could have been a block away, it could have been nearer. I couldn't tell. And then I saw a figure - no, several figures - stumbling towards the lunchtime commuters with arms outstretched. One of them lurched into the road, and a taxi plowed into it, horn blaring.
I'm pretty sure that Carlissa, Melanie, and Diane hate me now, if they're still alive. They probably weren't very impressed when they thought I was skipping out on the check - why else would I have suddenly leapt up from the table and taken off running down Broad Street? Then, when they found out what everybody else was slowly realizing - that a group of corpses had stumbled up out of the river and were systematically chewing their way through the lunchtime crowd, they realized that I'd actually done something much worse - I'd run off and left them to die.
I kicked off my stilettos as I ran. The wind whistled past, sending my hair flying. I could hear screams and crashing metal as the world behind me went straight to hell, but I kept running, trying to put as much distance between myself and the chaos as possible.
I'm heading for the harbor now. Hopefully there'll be a boat or something that I can take to get out of here...
Dear Diary,
Oh my gosh, you would not believe what's going on right now. If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn't have believed it myself!
But before I totally freak out, I should probably start from the beginning.
So, I had just finished talking to Jonah on my cellphone, after I got out of the apartment. Luckily for me, Jonah's a bit of a pushover, especially when I use my sultry voice, so he didn't give me a hard time about being gone all night. Besides, I'd totally be lying if I said that this is the first time that it's happened.
I didn't really have much planned for the day - I just did a high profile shoot for Adidas, showing off some of their athletic gear. They liked my style a lot. In fact, the exec slipped a handsome bonus onto my paycheque and told me that they'd be interested in offering me an exclusive contract. They wanted to see what kind of buzz the ads generate before they actually put anything in writing, but until then they'd essentially be paying me to do nothing at all.
They'd also given me some complimentary Adidas jogging stuff to wear. I pitched it in the trash can on my way out. I wouldn't be caught dead wearing those shapeless rags. Fact of the matter is, I only wear Puma.
I took the subway back towards East Village, and decided to pass through Times Square on the way. Right there, up among the hundreds of billboards and lights, was a picture of yours truly, workin' up a sweat in Adidas apparel.
I spent the morning traipsing around my favorite haunts: Saks Fifth Avenue, Bloomingdales, Macy's. Not too long ago, I couldn't have afforded anything on those racks - Jonah doesn't make a lot of money doing... er... whatever it is that Jonah does. (You'd think I would know what my husband's job is, but apparently it's never come up in conversation.) But now that I've got Adidas wrapped around my little finger, things are gonna change.
While I was admiring myself in a slinky little black number, my cell phone buzzed. My group of girlfriends had heard about the Adidas gig, and they wanted to have lunch to celebrate.
They're the perfect group of friends. Like me, they're models. Unlike me, they're hideous. They're entitled snippy little harpies who slept their way into the industry, and they've only got a small handful of functioning brain cells between them. The conversation's about as interesting as a box of bran flakes, but I still get together with them every now and again, just to keep score. Modelling gigs, new outfits, celebrity hook-ups; you name it, I do better than the rest of the girls put together - which means that from every conceivable angle, I quantifiably win at life. Now there's a technique you won't find any self-help book, ladies.
We decided to have lunch at a restaurant in Battery Park. The girls all gabbled and squealed about my new opportunity, and how lucky I was. Please. As if luck had anything to do with it. There are four reasons why I got that job, and the first two are my hair and my face.
"So," said Carlissa, expectantly. Her beady little eyes were glinting that particular glint that Carlissa gets when she thinks she's being "delightfully wicked." Carlissa always says things like "delightfully wicked," because she thinks it makes her sound cultured. She's wrong. It just makes her sound idiotic. "I hear that you left the soiree (See what I mean? "Soiree.") with a certain someone."
I took a sip of my ice water, ignoring her.
"Come on, Leah," whined Melanie. "You can't just waltz out of a party with Alessandro Romero on your arm and not tell us anything!"
I nearly choked on an ice cube. Alessandro Romero was an Italian fashion designer, one of the most famous in the entire world.
"Pfft," huffed Diane. "The way he was groping her when they got into his limo, I think the rest of the story is pretty obvious."
I put down the glass, slowly. The ice cubes clinked a little, because my hand was trembling. The rest of the story was obvious. I had met Alessandro Romero, gotten drunk with him, then gone back to his place... and then I had sucker-punched him in the throat.
Oh shit oh shit oh shit.
As unbelievable as it sounds, things actually somehow managed to get worse, when a few distinct screams began to rise above the general hubbub of the tourist throngs.
I looked up, and spotted a few people running for their lives. At first I thought they were filming a movie or something - it happens all the time in Manhattan - but there were no cameras around. A gunshot cracked through the air - it could have been a block away, it could have been nearer. I couldn't tell. And then I saw a figure - no, several figures - stumbling towards the lunchtime commuters with arms outstretched. One of them lurched into the road, and a taxi plowed into it, horn blaring.
I'm pretty sure that Carlissa, Melanie, and Diane hate me now, if they're still alive. They probably weren't very impressed when they thought I was skipping out on the check - why else would I have suddenly leapt up from the table and taken off running down Broad Street? Then, when they found out what everybody else was slowly realizing - that a group of corpses had stumbled up out of the river and were systematically chewing their way through the lunchtime crowd, they realized that I'd actually done something much worse - I'd run off and left them to die.
I kicked off my stilettos as I ran. The wind whistled past, sending my hair flying. I could hear screams and crashing metal as the world behind me went straight to hell, but I kept running, trying to put as much distance between myself and the chaos as possible.
I'm heading for the harbor now. Hopefully there'll be a boat or something that I can take to get out of here...
