The starlet was blonde. This was the word she embodied, with her big hair towering above her face like a carnal crown of spun sugar melting into the glittery, glossy colors of her heavy war paint. Her false eyelashes made her eyes droop , making her myopic curse even more debilitating as she stumbled around the suite groping for the corkscrew, as her manicured claws gripped a new bottle of something bubbly. In her pink kitten heels, her lack of balance was even more baffling because somehow her top heaviness pivoted in the pointed little slippers, which revealed painted toe nails. “Ah Geez,” she whispered breathlessly when the right foot sunk into the familiar chill of Pepe’s droppings. “Bad dog,” he pink pout repeated as the chihuahua yipped and began zipping around biting her ankles.

The blurry actress kicked the poo shoe off, the shit splattering as it twirled in the air then landed upon the white love seat. Between the cushions she saw the silvery glint of the corkscrew and stepped out of the other pink furry shoe to fetch it. “Pepe, you’re a genius. I’m so thirsty.” The tiny dog yapped incessant.

She opened the champagne with rare expertise and didn’t bother with a flute. She was in a hurry.

She went to the wall where a large full length mirror hung majestically.

“You’re a hot mess,” she consoled herself. The bikini underneath her frilly little frock was made of string which made its way into her crevices and felt intrusive.

She was headed out to the swimming pool to meet producers, directors, horny agents and whoever had a part of her. Bloody heel, I need some shoes,” she knew there was Jimmy Choos, a pair of leather boots, ballet flats in the bag. “Fuck it, “ I’ll treat myself to some designer flip flops in the gift shop, “ she began to touch up her makeup. Then realized there was a shitty pink slipper on her love seat. What if someone like Quentin T wanted to come back to her room for a drink?”

She picked up the shoe, scurried to the kitchenette scooping up its mate as she went. She threw both into a plastic laundry bag and dragged a wad of paper towels back to the couch to clean up the dog shit. The brown smear wasn’t going away so she tossed a shawl over the arm and spritzed Chanel all over the room until Pepe sought cover under the table.

“Serves you right,” she gloated, tipping back the bubbles and belching when she came up for air.

“Air,” she said, pulling back the curtains to open the large windows then leaving the sliding door Ajar. She looked over the balcony to see the pool, which was surrounded by bikini clad rivals and slick well groomed men with high balls and low morals. “Just my type,” she said as she threw things into a wicker tote. “Sunglasses, key card, Cosmo, sun block, lip gloss, phone, diaphragm, spray bottle, towel, script..”

she looked around lost, “Gift shop...” she movies easier with bar feet, which no one noticed down in the lobby. Her boobs were what no one could take their eyes off of. Worth every cent, she reminded herself, though she hadn’t paid them off yet. The gift shop was overpriced and tacky but she saw a pair of fifty dollar flip flops adorned with gory rhinestone and cursive letters that spelled out Star. She went to the counter with her new pot wear and impulsively added gum, a Godiva candy bar and tiny bottle of nail glitter, which a bored young woman rang up wordlessly.

“Oh,” the blonde remembered, I need a couple packs of Virginia Slims, menthols, a big bottle of Evian and some plugs. She went around pulling the water and tampons off the shelves, distracted by big earrings and glittering phone charms. The cashier rang up the smokes, and just seemed to randomly charge the starlet for the waiter and “plugs.” Which had no prices.

She bagged these things up as the girl rummaged around in the wicker tote until she found a c note, still rolled up from the blow she was hovering with some camera man and a grip the night before.

She took the bag of goodies, threw it in the bag and tore the plastic tag off between the flip flops, which she dropped and slid into. The girl was ready to count back her change.

“You keep it,” she told her. The cashier didn’t argue. “Thanks,” she muttered because silly little starlets were rarely so generous. Creep men had to be, which meant the lousy gig in the gift shop was lucrative. “Wish me luck,” the blonde sang as she left. Outside the LA smog and sun were brutal, but not as bad as the traffic crawling along outside on Sunset. She took the last lounger with good rays and a nice line of vision to what was going on poolside.

A cabana boy with a big blinding white smile asked her if she wanted a drink. “Oooh,” she cooed, “Strawberry Daiquiri.”

“Should I start a tab, Miss?”

“Good idea,” she laid back to read about mind blowing orgasms and eye liner tricks of the trade.