Cousin Sherry

Sherry @ The Club.jpg

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. They say every dog has it’s day? Well it looks like today is mine.” Haven’t heard from Cousin Sherry since.

Get Out Of My Face

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: