I'm a failed TV host taking to the pages of THE HOLLYWOOD REPORTER to whine about fame -- specifically how the famous get stuff other people don't.
Like if you did a really bad job and got fired after a year of repeat chances, you wouldn't get to write a column for THE HOLLYWOOD REPORTER unless you were famous.
Or like it's unfair that my sister can't get her day in court. If she were famous, it wouldn't matter that the statute of limitations had run out.
She's so unfamous and that must really suck.
If I weren't famous, I'd kill myself.
I like being famous but feel like I'd be more famous if my mother wasn't Mia Farrow.
Her brief moment of fame was in 1968.
Since then, she really doesn't work, she just has work done.
I wish I'd had so much work done that my face resembled a Muppet head or that my lips were permanently swollen.
Mommy's so lucky.
But I digress.
Years ago, when I was too young to know anything, Mommy broke up with my father Woody Allen.
I'm still too young to know anything.
If I have but one life to live, let me live it as an infamously dumb blond.
What was I saying.
Something about how unfair fame is.
My whole life proves that.
I've never had anything to say but I sure do say it a lot.
Over and over.
You can do that with a famous father and a semi-celebrity mother.
(Why couldn't Jill St. John -- or anyone else really talented -- have been my mother!!!)
I call myself a reporter.
Isn't that cute?
I'm like a socialite with a camera calling herself a photographer.
