Management Issues
I love my team. I love my management. I really do.
But sometimes they fuck up.
I have friends who keep telling me I should fire the lot of them and find myself some new representation. And they're probably right. But we've been together for so long now, and I'm a sentimental woman. Underneath all this fabulousness, somewhere very deep down, there's a heart.
Besides, these people knew me before I became famous. Before I was loved, revered, adored and generally considered one of the greatest gifts ever bestowed upon this place.
All those two horrible, gruesome days, they were there for me.
And you don't just throw away that sort of loyalty.
So I forgive them for occasionally raiding my stash of pharmaceuticals. I turn a blind eye when they have sex with whoever I brought home the night before, once I've left again in the morning. I'm fairly certain they skim some of my earnings, but I suppose everyone needs a little something to look forward to.
And sometimes, just sometimes, they forget to double-check whether my name is actually on the guest list.
Like yesterday.
Now, you can imagine my surprise. There I was, all dressed up, looking absolutely spectacular, ready to grace Sunvana with my presence, only to discover that apparently the place was already at capacity.
At capacity. Without me.
I mean, I understand the concept, theoretically. But surely someone should have considered the possibility that I might want to attend? Frosty, who found himself in a similar situation, actually called for people to leave. And while I completely understand the sentiment, I decided against following his example. He's not used to this sort of treatment either, you see.
Besides, I have tremendous respect for fire and safety regulations. I'm well aware of how much heat I bring to a party, and when you combine that with a room full of people, things can become dangerously combustible. So I did the responsible thing. I went shopping.
On a Friday night. I know.
It felt positively surreal, wandering through almost abandoned shopping malls instead of flaunting myself on a crowded dance floor. Empty corridors, deserted shops, the occasional lonely fellow shopper who probably had no idea what an extraordinary encounter they'd just been blessed with.
And there I was, trying on things I probably didn't need, buying things I certainly didn't need, and wondering how my life had come to this. Shopping on a Friday night. Like some sort of civilian. But shit happens.
Fortunately, not all my plans went south. Because while some places may occasionally find themselves unable to accommodate my magnificence, there's always a place for me at VICE.
So that's part of the evening went just as I planned, and I found myself surrounded by music, beautiful people and the comforting familiarity of a proper Friday night. I got my dance floor. The world got its Doreen. Order was restored.
And my management? Well, they still have their jobs.
For now.
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This post is not sponsored or paid for in any way. I was also not blackmailed or tortured to write it.
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