Shoulda gone to China. They give away babies like free iPods. They put them in guns and shoot them out at sporting events.

The stuff I write isn't strictly autobiographical, but it's personal, if that makes any sense. It draws all these little incidents and people out of my life and then contorts them.

The fashion industry isn't merely content to encase my meaty flanks in skintight denim. Oh, no! That denim also has to be white, a color that attracts ketchup, wine, garlic aioli, and any other foodstuffs I might otherwise be able to enjoy if I wasn't wearing ridiculously tight pants.

For me, stripping was an unusual kind of escape. I had nothing to escape but privilege, but I claimed asylum anyway. At twenty-four, it was my last chance to reject something and become nothing. I wanted to terrify myself. Mission accomplished.

The public's appetite for frothy, flippant blondes has waned, but Paris Hilton still fascinates me.

You know, I did not like being famous. It was a stressful and ugly time, and I'm glad it's over.

I just want to be able to keep my house and pay for my son's school tuition in Los Angeles.