From the ever-so-awesome and eloquent Records Custodian:
Dear Readers –
I realize that my last column could easily give you the impression that I have faced scathing criticism through no fault of my own. That was irresponsible, and gave the impression that I was some sort of blameless victim enduring a disproportional reaction to the frivolous, fun-spirited minutia I have published on my personal corner of the web. Nothing could be further from the truth.
I have over a dozen social media accounts, upon which I have uploaded thousands of pictures and videos of myself. I spend upwards of 20 hours a day online, monitoring, updating, and cultivating an audience in the hopes that I can parlay my self-absorption into a well-paying career. I have targeted friends in the right industries to help me in this endeavor, including the sister of the founder of Facebook. I have donned a cheerleader uniform, posed in my underwear with old men and dressed in a condom costume, just to get a mention on Gawker.
I knew I needed to hitch myself to the right men to keep the attention flowing, and I targeted guys the way I targeted friends. You would probably recognize the names of my exes if you read Gawker – I didn’t so much date as I cross-branded! Hell, I even had one ex sign a contract, promising to blog about us! Unfortunately, nary a one of my exes wants anything to do with me anymore, as I am one of those girls who kisses and tells. And tells and tells and tells.
As you can imagine, this kind of relentless self-promotion garnered me more than a few critical comments. But it wasn’t until I did some really heinous and cruel things that I became the object of internet scorn. Remember that guy I made sign the relationship-blogging contract? Well, a month after we broke up, he went off to Mexico with some arty chick and I was livid. I announced not once, not twice, but three times (the last time, on Gawker) that he had a mental illness for which he refused to take medication. This was shortly after he was ousted from the company he founded, and even though I thought he was pretty far below my standards and kind of a nerd, people really reacted negatively to my little disclosure.
To make matters worse, a few months later, I sent an email to him, trying to guilt him into buying me a Macbook Air, and some asshole hater got wind of it and published it. So now everyone who cared about the social lives of a bunch of navel-gazing twenty-somethings in NYC knew I was flippant about revealing such private information about him and not in the least bit apologetic. I became a social pariah. Hell, like I told ABC (all publicity is good publicity), even my own mother stopped talking to me for a while.
You would think this would cause me to do some heavy soul-searching, but you don’t really understand my obsession with attention. I launched a new blog and called it a business, leaked to anyone PR rep who would listen that I would soon be starring in a show on Bravo, did more kissing and telling, dressed up in more costumes, and eventually, made my way to the cover of Wired Magazine. The subject of the story? Being famous for being a nobody. It was the high point of my career.
But every high point has its inevitable downfall. Eventually, I had a falling out with my “business” partners, the Bravo show never happened, and all of the “friends” I carefully cultivated stopped wanting to be associated with me. I never actually acknowledged any of my personal failures or my heinous acts towards others and just kept up with the manic social media posting about my so-called fabulous life. I also did what every lonely single girl does – I blogged, stalked and harassed my exes and their new loves, trying everything in my power to get the last word and maybe show them what they were missing. In the name of closure, of course.
When the meager opportunities dried up in NYC (although I am still a big hit in cabs in Manhattan), I told some weird story about moving to Chicago to write a column. It is a syndicated column – hell, you’re reading it in one of the four newspapers that picked it up – so where I live is sort of immaterial, but it was important to me that no one think I was leaving NYC with my tail tucked between my legs. Without the permission of my new employer, Tribune Media Services, I arranged a fauxtoshoot (as my detractors call them) to announce my new column and arrival in Chicago. Reinvention would be mine.
And then, I struck gold. Through one of my strategic friendships, this one with Meghan McCain, daughter of John McCain, the guy who wanted Sarah Palin to be second in command, I met Jack McCain. Sure, he’s in the Navy, which isn’t very photo-friendly, and he’s young and moving overseas for his career, but he is the son of a bona fide, bold face name. It was exactly what I was looking for – a shot of adrenaline for my dwindling relevancy and internet fame. I am currently mining this relationship for every ounce of publicity it can get me, although I must admit, I am getting far less attention for it than I was hoping for. I am, however, optimistic that when it ends, I will have a trove of McCain dirty secrets to spill, so I have that in the vault.
I am telling you readers this not to brag, but to give you some context. We all make mistakes. I am not perfect. But I don’t deserve to be criticized for my mistakes or otherwise held accountable for my behavior. If you only knew me in real life, you would love me and find me irresistible and charming. And the stories I could tell you about my so-called victims – man, I have some dirt I could share. But what I do deserve is the ability to make a great living by just being Julia Allison, and I simply will not abide a bunch of losers talking shit about me on the internet. If you don’t like me, don’t follow me and don’t read anything I have to say. But you don’t have any right to have an opinion about me and you sure as shit don’t have any right to express that opinion. Unless you want to say something nice. In which case, my email is email@example.com. Please know that I reserve the right to edit and publish your email whenever it works for me.
The Julia who would never have the stones to write this
Remarkable and so On-Julia’s-Third-Nose! One tiny edit, if I may: Oh, she has stones, all right. They’re hanging in that sack that’s underneath her wiener.