The Diary Of Lady Gaga.
Monday, July 19th 2010. Finally got to Chillis but got recognized and now I fucking hate life, hate booze, hate pills, hate pleather, hate silly hat, hate Southwestern Egg Rolls, hate bottomless margaritas.
Wait. I love bottomless margaritas.
Hate handlers, hate Polaroid™, hate Diet Coke™, hate cigarette sunglasses, hate the fact that I beat the system so quickly because now what is there left to fight for? How can you beat the machine when you’re an integral part of it? What is the artists compromise, ultimately? Did I give up the struggle for a shot at the big time - and then get it, and now… now what? What use is the success if I feel so goddam alone? Who can I share it with? What use is a million gold coins if you can’t spend a single one of them? Alanis was so fucking right. This shit is ironic. Hate irony. Can you appreciate irony genuinely? Why does love hurt? Is it possible to bedazzle an entire person? I have so many questions, diary. And you are the only one that seems to listen.
To do today:
- Get banned in China.
- Open personal Chillis franchise in my condo.
- Decipher this Post-It note I wrote on acid.
- “House cat rickshaw”. Ringing any bells, Gaga? Goddamit.
- Hire Jenny, Steve from this Chillis to work in own personal Chillis. Maybe get to know them. Maybe fire a couple of the hyperserious Liberal Arts majors in entourage and hire Jenny and Steve. I like Jenny & Steve.
I wonder if I can bedazzle themNo, no, not after what happened last time.- Work shift at secret second job at Rosetta Stone kiosk in Sherman Oaks Galleria.
