Free Everything About Me Is Fake . . . And I'm Perfect by Janice Dickinson Page B

much more fun before rehab.”
                    Susan turned to the waiter, politely handed
him her glass of wine, and said, “I’ll have a cranberry juice.” The exec
shrugged and chugged down the rest of the bottle.
                    Stories like this just go to show how many
people in this business (and in life) don’t want you to have it all together,
and couldn’t care less about your efforts to stay sane. That’s why it’s so
important to police yourself, and not let these assholes seduce you back to
those dark places you know aren’t good for you.
                    (By the way, my friend refused to sign an
exclusive deal with this moron—which just made him want her more, treat her
better, and shove more money at her than she ever thought was possible. She
decided to use the cash to help a friend go to rehab. It only seemed right.) E
V E R Y T H I N G A B O U T M E I S F A K E . . . A N D I ’ M P E R F E C T
                    241
                    I’ve seen it all in this business. There was
one B-movie starlet—I can’t tell you her name—who met me at an audition in this
New York studio that smelled like dog shit. She took one look at me and said, “You
know, if I were you, I wouldn’t even try out for this movie. I hear all the
character wears is a G-string and stilettos.”
                    “What do you mean? Don’t go in for the
audition?” I said, sweetly. I wanted to see how far this bitch would go to
sabotage me.
                    “It could ruin your career,” she said,
flashing me a smile I’d seen on television and in the movies.
                    “Honey, I’ve made a living for years going
naked. A G-string will be a nice change of pace,” I replied. “I guess you
shouldn’t go in, either. After all, how can you wear a G-string after just
having a baby last month?”
                    “I didn’t have a baby!” she stammered.
                    “Oh, I’m sorry,” I said, staring at her
stomach. She just slinked away. Later on, a friend called me up to tell me that
the starlet in question had pulled this trick many times in the past. She ran
into my friend at another audition and warned her not to read for what was
really going to be
                    “a soft porn film.” In the end none of us
got the role, which made me happy; at least you-know-who with her backstabbing
ways wasn’t rewarded for her treachery. A few months later, I ran into Ms.
Starlet at another casting call. This time she was talking to a beautiful young
girl. “They’ll want you to do all these horrendous things in this movie,” she
whispered. “You should just get out of here now.” Would it ever end?
                    “You know, Janice. They have really early
calls on this movie,” she tried to warn me. But now she was dealing with the
Big Dog.
                    “Well, if they want me in before ten, that’s
good. I’ll just be getting in from the night before—I can just swing over to
the studio,” I said. Scumbag Starlet just shrugged and walked off. The last
time I saw her working was on a late-night cable movie that was more about ass
than class. “Who did she beat out?” I wondered out loud. “She must have told
the three other hookers who showed up to audition they’d have to work for free.”
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    J A N I C E D I C K I N S O N
                    This kind of sabotage may be bad—but
self-sabotage is worse. I was reminded of this recently when one of my friends
and I were salivating over the dessert menu at a chic little Beverly Hills
eatery. My friend just sat there moaning that she needed to lose thirty pounds.
“I really shouldn’t have dessert,” she said. “But how bad can a little sorbet
be?” I told her we’d split something; I knew