Beginning to wonder where it ends |

Beginning to wonder where it ends

Alison Berkley

I give up.

I’m not sure if I should write this column anymore. I’m thinking I might be sort of over it. Maybe I’ve already hit my prime and am now on the long, slow decline of, say, George Bush or Jennifer Aniston, cruising around with the world in the palm of my hand one day, a bomb in it the next. I’m thinking I should probably give it up before the man I love runs off to Africa to have a baby with one of the most beautiful women in the world. Or something like that.

Someone once said I thrive on negative attention, which is only partially true ” I thrive on any attention at all. I have not gotten e-mail from a reader in so long that my ego is as dried up and shriveled as the organic vegetables over at Clark’s.

Aside from Brian O’Hagan, some random guy in New York City who writes me every week without fail, the only reader response I’ve gotten lately has been in the form of these random, rather unpleasant incidents. Like a couple of weeks ago, this old lady accosted me on the street for something I wrote about four years ago. She went nuts, yelling and screaming and making a big scene, hair blowing in the wind, swinging her purse around like she might hit me over the head with it any second. I’m sort of standing there, stupidly, and the best thing I can come up with is, “That’s not very nice.”

A few days later, I’m on the phone with this girl I know who, granted, is sort of a drama queen, but still. One second we’re having a nice conversation and then out of nowhere, she starts making these threats, saying she’s talked to a lawyer and would not hesitate to put a hit out on me if I were to ever write about her. I think her exact words were, “If you write about me, I’ll kill you. But if you do, please make sure you spell my name right … .”

Sorry! God! Don’t these people know my world revolves around me? Like I care enough to want to deal with this crap?

The other night, I was crying in my beer at the Cantina, seeking comfort and free tequila shots from some of my best guy friends. Even though I love them all, the sweet bears that they are, I gotta say, I wasn’t all that encouraged by their responses.

“What is it? Am I getting tired? Writing about the same stuff over and over? What? Tell me,” I pleaded, softly banging my head against the table.

“Do the list thing again! I love the lists!” my friend John said, nodding and smiling with his signature gap-tooth grin. “It’s easier to read when you have a short attention span.”

“Well …” my friend Jack began, pausing with a sigh so he could word his response carefully, like only a true politician can. “When you started becoming you, instead of that diva princess character, it changed a little bit. But it’s still good, I guess, just different … . Good God, are the tourists back already?” he said, eyeballing a particularly poorly dressed group of people who had just walked by.

Then Tim goes, “Listen, Princess, I think you need to challenge yourself more, try something different. Maybe work a little harder.”

People who try to put “work” and “princess” in the same sentence obviously have no idea what they are talking about.

I also have more competition nowadays. I never used to read the papers. But now that I’ve become all insecure and paranoid, I scour everything that’s written to see if I can figure out what in the hell the local media is driving at these days.

It only makes me more confused than ever. I mean, what does it all mean? I should just stick with reading Us Weekly in the bathtub and forget about it. Have you seen Ashlee Simpson’s new nose, for crying out loud? I really need to find the doctor who did that.

Maybe I’m just not cool enough anymore. The truth is, after sweating my tits off at hot yoga, I spend most nights at home, watching old “Sopranos” episodes on DVD and eating salads. Now that I’m trying to save money, I never go out and I’ve quit shopping totally. My boy-craziness has been all but extinguished by the reality that the only man who will stick with me until death-do-us-part is 5 years old and has four legs and a major problem with aggression. Sure, he’s loyal, loving, protective and a very good listener, but let’s face it ” he doesn’t even have hands. The point is, I’m not getting much fodder sitting on my couch with a mud mask drying on my face, hanging out with Psycho Paws and Tony Soprano. (Is anyone else out there as attracted to him as I am? Am I losing my mind, or what?)

I just don’t want to be washed up, like those 40-something Hollywood women who cruise around delaying their inevitable demise with fake boobs and hair extensions and low-rise Juicy sweat suits. Come on. They’re scratching just to make their way up the D-list.

Maybe it’s time to pass the buck onto the next crop of female columnists. After all, they seem to have a better knack at playing the media than I do, with their television shows and radio programs. I guess in that regard, I really am two-dimensional.

I swear I’m not fishing for compliments ” just trying to figure out what the hell to use as bait.

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