Flashing, Alcohol and Bad Press. What a way to cure a Badly Broken Heart, huh?

I shivered with the cold as I faced the flashing cameras with eager, hungry eyes behind them. Walking on to the red carpet I tore of my jacket and fired it into the crowd of paparazzi , revealing just me in my underwear. Making them dive for the jacket. No Bra just me in a pair of new hop pink playboy girl-boxers and Hot pink heels. As I strutted back and forth letting them get there’s moneys worth, a question was fired my way by a reporter that made me stop and think. . “Do you miss him?” I stooped and stared at the tiny blonde, dressed in a smart black jacket and pencil skirt, behind her a blading fat man had a camera on his shoulder and what resembled a pencil in his pants. “No,” I said laughing manically, “Not at all, in fact if he wasn’t banging someone else and still with me, I wouldn’t be able to do this. He was holding me back.” I shrieked with laughter sticking my tongue out at the camera, I moved on answering random questions about the man that broke my heart and left me shattered, although I would never tell anybody. After a while of the cold nipping my bare skin, I headed inside a hummer that was warm. The driver got a good eyeful of my *ahem ahem* assets. “Would you please care to drive instead of perving on a seventeen-year-old rockstar? Thank you.” I asked putting on a fake smile. Don’t get me wrong, I’m usually a very nice person but when he left me for that whore I have changed. Completely.