When I first hit Paris to walk for Givenchy, I was nineteen and you couldn’t tell me squat. So when I saw that cabaret chanteuse Sherry Rogers was in town performing, I invited some of the crew to her show. She’s my cousin, you see. But then I got grand. I sent a note backstage that I was in the audience and would love to visit and say hello. She replied, “Dinner plans. Sorry,” and broke my face. But Sherry wasn’t feeling me or anyone from the Bronx. I knew that. Bitch didn’t even come home for her brother’s funeral. Okay? Years later, though, she had the balls to send me a note backstage after a Versace show, wanting to bring her granddaughter back who’s “dying to meet her supermodel cousin”. You know I had to drag her for humiliating me years earlier. How could I resist? I wrote — “Sorry diva. Every dog has it’s day, right?” Haven’t heard from Cousin Sherry since.