I’ve never been big on repeat offenses. Not with fashion, not with boy toys, and not with old rivals resurfacing with the intention of bumping me out of my hard-won Alpha status in the Bradford social register.
And yet. Here I am, back in the saddle at Zephyr again.
I can’t believe Spencer sold me out. I can’t believe that after everything she and I have been through, she buddied up with that washed-out California bitch and had me shuttled back off to rehab. Rehab. Again!
Who am I, Brit-Brit? Even she seems to have managed to clean up her rep somewhat. But not me. Here I am, falsely accused, scribbling away on my Blackberry Curve with only the glow of the screen to guide me. (Did I mention that lights out here is called for ten p.m. sharp?)
Look, it’s not like I’ve never indulged in any illegal or otherwise controlled substances. I’d never bother to deny that. But if I’m going to be carted off in handcuffs like a teenage prostitute on a rerun of Law and Order, it’d be nice if the substance in question, the one that had so conveniently turned up in my pocket, had actually been mine. (Guess Regan didn't like my little gift. Doesn't she know I have a No Returns policy?)
Meanwhile, Daddy couldn’t get me off the hook. WTF? Clearly Mom traded down when she married new money.
Nope, it was Zephyr or juvie, and at least here, there’s hydrotherapy and a personal nutrition consultant on hand. I got the hairy eyeball from the receptionist at intake (girlfriend could def use an eyebrow wax, pronto), but once I’m settled back in, I’ll be “working the program.”
Right now, I'm figuring out how to best finagle the sitch to my advantage. That’s what I do best, after all: work it.
So there’s the silver lining to the whole, “rehab, redux” scenario. I may be down, but don’t count me out, beyotches. Trust that your girl P will come out of this on top. It’s going to take way more than this scandal lite to drive me apart from my friendlies. . . .
location: cellblock 409. don’t even talk to me about the gazillion thread count sheets. it’s the clink, for reals!
status: locked down
mood: ready to “rehabilitate”—and turn this dramz around