Searching

August 19, 2008

Sitting home alone on a Monday night, wrapped in a blanket, sipping on cheap white wine from California, Anastasia noted that many gymnasts in the Olympics shared her first name. Maybe she could go do gymnastics, she thought to herself.

Well, not actually do gymnastics, but maybe coach gymnastics. She could fake that she knew what she was doing, her name was  Anastasia, and she’s been glued to the Olympics watching gymnastics since it came on.

She took another sip of wine.

She felt her life was like a bad Woody Allen movie. Not that his movies were bad but that they were long, drawn out, moody, emotional, ironic, and deep on a pretentious sort of level. She could be an actress, she knew it. She was always told she was a drama queen.

Anastasia Sempura – movie star. Celebrity. But she wouldn’t be like a glamazon like Angelina, J.Lo, or anyone else who soaked up the limelight by being sexy all the time. She would be a hip star, kind of like a Sienna Miller, Kate Moss, Mary Kate girl but with something different – she was brunette after all. She’d be a brunette version of what they are.

Or maybe she could just be a model. She read enough Vogue and has seen enough America’s Next Top Model (all ten seasons) to know how to smile with her eyes, lift her chin, and contort your body to make it look skinny and waif-like.

Anastasia liked her food though. She was never more than 5 or 10 pounds overweight, but models are generally 10 pounds underweight and she knew she could never be happy and malnourished at the same time.

Taking the last sip of her wine, she grabbed the bottle quickly, almost knocking it over but catching it last minute, and filled up her glass. She shook her head at the tv, knowing the American girl was robbed.

She knew that the one she shared her name with should have won, she stuck her landing for chrissakes. She knew that the poor girl wanted to bawl her eyes out, kick the gold medal winner and take it out from under her.

Anastasia stretched on her uncomfortable leather sofa, put down her glass, and changed the channel. She wondered if she drank too much. She wondered when she’d get a new job.

She switched the channel to TMZ, watching stupid celebrity shows made life a little easier, or maybe it just made her forget, she wasn’t sure. She stumbled off her couch to her huge windows that overlooked the city down below.

She was wearing only lingerie, a D&G bra and panty set, with her bright green Louboutins.

Anastasia was hoping someone was going to stop by, but realised that at 1:30 am at night, it wasn’t going to happen for the thirteenth day in a row.

She thought of going to bed.

Instead she lay on the couch, watching Britney flail, and thought about how difficult it could be to come out with your own handbag line. Anastasia had huge ideas, green clutches, yellow croc, and even red satin, how hard could it be?

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