Pamela Anderson stepped out of the shower at the health club in Santa Monica, California. It was almost midnight, and Pamela started to make it a habit to come to the health club in the evening rather than do the party thing. Pamela's new marriage to Kid Rock re-inspired her to get the body in shape. She was turning forty next year, and this milestone was sitting on the horizon like a looming set of double doors with a butler welcoming her to old age. The thought of "old age," of being elderly, was a thought she had only when she focused on her liver. Pamela had struggled for many years with the hepatitis C virus she got from sharing a tattoo needle with her former husband Tommy Lee who apparently never told her that he had the dreaded liver virus. The virus had ravaged Pamela's liver for over a year and a half, but her many medical treatments had seemed to get the virus under control, though Pamela knew it could reveal itself again at anytime. It was the hepatitis C virus that first gave Pamela a glimpse of "old age," of death, and she worked hard to distract herself from these thoughts. Her many breast enlargement surgeries and re-arrangements had been her primary distraction.
As she stood by herself late at night at the Santa Monica health club with a white towel in her right hand, she faced the floor-to-ceiling mirror and examined her naked body. It was very tan, a tan more pronounced from the stark tan lines formed by the very skimpy bikinis she routinely wore. Her breasts heaved forward, unnaturally to anyone's eye, but to Pamela they were a thing of youth and beauty. Pamela's very round honey-dew-melon-sized glands were supported entirely by the latest technological implants medicine could muster. They were bulbous and bursting as if someone had blown them up like balloons, one more blow would make them explode. To many, Pamela's breasts were more disgusting and an oddity than a thing of female beauty, but to Pamela they translated into adoration and money. Pamela couldn't act. Pamela did not have any employable skills. All she had was her body. Pamela had been told she was beautiful and her body was nearly perfect, but the early-in-her-life breast surgeries had forced Pamela to return to the plastic surgeon time and time again to re-jigger the aging and sagging bags of flesh, and with each time, the breasts were stuffed with larger and larger implants. But hell, so what, she still looked great for being just shy of forty years old.
As Pamela held her white towel in her right hand, dangling to her side, she examined her five foot seven inch frame, the muscles, the shapely hips, the long blond hair, the biceps and strong legs. She was a thing of beauty. Yeah, OK, so the breasts were more a matter of medical science than hard work at the health club, but Pamela's mission was to beef up her muscles to balance out the weighty mammary glands that sometimes looked like they dragged Pamela down. It bothered Pamela that she no longer could sleep on her stomach because of her breasts. In fact, she had trouble sleeping on her side. She had to sleep on her back, which, according to Kid Rock, caused her to snore at night with her mouth open. Tommy Lee never told her that, which is probably because Tommy Lee was out cold from all the drinking and drugs. But Kid Rock apparently loved her enough to watch her sleep, even though it horrified Pamela that the beautiful Pamela Anderson snored.
At that moment, Nicole Ritchie walked in, stark naked, holding a towel, ready to take a shower. Nicole was barely more than a skeleton, weighing in at a mere 83 pounds, a number Nicole just read off the scale in the health club. It was a goal of Nicole Ritchie to get down to 80 pounds, and she had a big smile on her face as she walked up to Pamela Anderson, facing the floor-to-ceiling mirror, holding her towel in her left hand. Nicole looked at herself in the mirror as she stood to Pamela's left. Pamela looked at Nicole's naked body in the mirror. Both of them standing in the nude, examining each other in the mirror, alone in the Santa Monica health club shower room.
"I didn't know you belonged to this club," said Pamela.
"I don't. I have a guest pass. I am trying out a few weights," said Nicole.
Pamela Anderson glanced at Nicole Ritchie's naked body. Nicole was holding the health club white towel in her left hand. It almost appeared as if the towel had more weight and substance than Nicole. To Pamela, Nicole appeared like a skeleton dangling from a medical school classroom. The only difference between the skeleton and Nicole was that the skeleton is not inherently disgusting. Nicole Ritchie's body, if that is what you could call it, was so wasted, it was as if someone had spray painted her muscles on, and then spray painted again Nicole’s skin. There was virtually no meat on Nicole Ritchie. The only thing preventing Nicole from getting thinner were the actually bones themselves. Pamela wondered how Nicole could even stand, or her heart pump. There was no room for any internal organs. At that moment Pamela noticed that the veins in Nicole's neck were filling with blood and then disappearing, and then filling again and then disappearing. Nicole's inner circulatory system was clearly visible through silk-thin skin. There was no muscle, Pamela concluded, but for the working heart muscle, which Pamela was certain would not survive Nicole Ritchie's sick starvation diet. She gave Nicole maybe a few months unles she got some kind of intervention. Does anyone love this poor thing?
"Did you say you were doing weights?" asked Pamela.
"Yeah," said Nicole, whose left leg buckled briefly, causing Nicole to almost stumble. But Nicole was able to recover using the few hidden inner muscles or bones to right herself.
Nicole Ritchie lifting weights, thought Pamela, was not possible. Nicole could hardly hold the bath towel.
"Weights, huh. Like what are you lifting?" asked Pamela.
"Oh god, I'm not lifting them. I just look at them," said Nicole as she kept examining herself in the mirror, with this haunting smile, almost dreamlike, the kind of smile you might see on a person who had accepted death and was about to shut their eyes and say goodbye.
Nicole just looks at the weights. Did Pamela Anderson hear that correctly? Wasn't there anyone at the health club to help this poor sick thing? Nicole was no longer a human female. In fact, Nicole Ritchie had no breasts, no distinguishing characteristics or body parts that would indicate sex or even species at this point. Nicole Ritchie was a specimen for an anthropologist dusting off bones in the desert. Pamela had remembered the cute little Nicole standing next to the Paris Hilton on that TV show back when Nicole was the pudgy one. She was adorable then. Now Nicole Ritchie was harder to look at than the Elephant Man or Michael Jackson. Pamela decided to suggest a late-night snack, but she would tread gingerly.
"You want to go to a Starbucks, Nicole? There's one right around the corner," said Pamela.
"Oh, no. No. I 'm going to take a shower. I need to take a shower and clean off the sweat I have built up. I smell. I have this odor. Sweat odor," said Nicole in her dream-like state.
Yeah, she had an odor alright, a sickly odor of death, as if the bacteria in what was left of Nicole's intestines had already started feeding on her innards as death meat. At some point soon Nicole would blow up into a death gas ball caused by the chewing bacteria inside her.
"I have to go. Take care of yourself, Nicole. Take care of yourself," said Pamela Anderson as she turned and walked out of the shower.
Nicole Anderson did not say goodbye; she did not say anything. But Nicole did drag herself to the shower and struggled to turn the shower knob on. But the force to turn the shower on was too great for her. So Nicole Ritchie just stood in the open shower stall standing under the drip of water that occurred every few seconds from the shower head. But given Nicole Ritchie's bony existence, that was all that was necessary. At least that is what Nicole thought as she smiled and licked the shower water off her lips, one drip at a time.