Lord, what is happening to me? Where did it all go wrong? Something snapped in my head in the last decade and I can’t figure when. I had an appointment with a psychiatrist today, she diagnosed alcohol induced dementia. “You need to see a therapist”, she said, for the gazillionth time.
So the other day, the ‘passion’ with which I called my (ex) girlfriend and hurled all grammatically possible racial, sexist slurs at her was quite a first of the celebrity kinds. I think I was intoxicated because I don’t remember that happening. Apparently, I threatened to ravage her house and her life. But all this is only the tip of the iceberg. Domestic violence and homicide accusations are shooting through the roof. Everyone is talking about how they won’t spend a penny out of their wallets to watch my future films and some even conspiring to boot me out of film business.
My publicist, who suffered from psychosis after the wreck, quit at the first chance. My agency, simply put, thought I was not bankable property anymore. My ratings have been in a freefall now that I’m a misogynist, anti-Semitic, racist, violent madman. I’ve been caught dropping F-Bombs like a blitz but my belief is that Jesus (I will resurrect) is by my side because, hell, I made Passion of the Christ, I am The Patriot.
Gathering my guts, I listened to the audiotapes; god I was ranting like I did in Braveheart, heaving like I was Satan himself. Having drinking problems is not funny to the least. One ends up cracking up a tad too much. Blame it on Hollywood and its victims-the other miserable celebrities who battle this burning issue.
My Russian opportunist girlfriend thinks she can frame a Christian man? Deeply complicating matters by having court sessions to demand humungous compensations. Doesn’t she know the Jews are responsible for all the wars on earth? Maybe she should scheme against them.
The worst part of being a celebrity is that your private matters are subjected to public debate and judgment. Who remembers the sports cars and the private jets in such tragic moments? The point is getting lost in the schizophrenic brain of mine. My career now in shambles, I should perhaps gamble on setting up a consultancy for crisis management of rage-aholics. And as far as public image is concerned, well, it goes out of the window. All to rely on the fact that some women still love my nicely built, hairy chest; maybe I can try my luck on them.
[DISCLAIMER: This is entirely a work of fiction. Any remarks or opinions are not meant to hurt anyone’s sentiments.]
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