Michael Jackson Starts To Develop

The year is 1964. Michael ran into his bedroom, crying quietly, his father yelling from downstairs. Michael shut the door and jumped onto the bed. He placed his face into the white pillow which he hugged with his arms. He was wearing a white undershirt and flannel pajamas. Michael kept his face pushed into the soft pillow until he felt the tears stop. He lifted his head and touched his left cheek where his father had hit him with a fist. It was tender. Michael sat up on the bed and noticed the small wall mirror. He quietly walked to the mirror and examined his face. His cheek was inflamed and had turned dark blue. He looked at his left hand where he touched his cheek and was happy to see no blood. But his hand was dirty from having played in the backyard dirt under the sick palm tree. The mess he made was the cause of his father's anger. It was different everyday. His father's rage came and went like the Santa Ana winds, unpredictable and with always a violent force. Michael reached into a drawer and rummaged around and found his sister's white glove. He put the white glove on his left hand to cover the dirt. He then looked back up at the mirror and stepped back, keeping his eyes on the mirror. He stepped forward. Then back again. Then forward, keeping his eyes on the mirror, looking at his face get smaller than bigger. Michael then thought he saw his face contort, one cheek up, the other down, his nose got bigger, one eye drooped. He was growing ugly. Michael’s heart raced. He walked forward to get a closer look at the mirror, but oddly saw that his face got smaller. He walked forward again and his face continued to get smaller. He did not know what was happening. Michael then looked down at his feet which were in white socks and black slippers and noticed that he was stepping forward with one foot but pulling himself back with his other foot, intending to go forward, giving the impression of going forward but actually walking backwards. Michael got scared. He thought this was spooky, like he was possessed by some demon that was tearing him apart, ripping him in opposite directions. He then felt a warmth in his crotch and realized he was peeing. He grabbed his crotch with his ungloved right hand and pulled it up to stop the peeing. It stopped. He was wet, but he had stopped himself and held it. Michael stood in the middle of the room, his right hand on his crotch, his left white gloved hand open and up near his face. He raised his head and saw himself in the mirror again. Michael looked at himself and would never forget this moment.

Kate Moss Does Heroin With The Help Of Chanel

Kate Moss stood in the elevator of the Hilton on Park Lane in London as it rose to the penthouse suite floor. She was alone, wearing a black skirt cut about six inches above her knees and white tank top with string shoulder straps. The top was tight, hugging Kate's round orange-size breasts. Her left hand held the top of a half empty bottle of Moet and Chandon Dom Perignon champagne, her left arm hung low burdened with the bottle, her back leaned against the rear of the elevator cab. Her right hand gripped the brass rail that ran around the cab. Kate’s drinking this evening had gotten a bit out of hand.The champagne bottle in Kate’s hand was the second one being worked on. A Gauloise cigarette was burning in Kate’s puffy lips, the non-filtered tip in Kate's mouth, the smoke rising into her face. She glanced up at the "No Smoking" sign and smiled. Signs did not mean anything to her. They had become silly. There did not seem to be any consequences to her behavior, bad or otherwise, and so she had decided to do whatever she liked.

The elevator doors opened and Kate walked down the hallway, occasionally tipping toward one side or the other, touching the wall as she moved to prevent herself from falling. She giggled. I mean, afterall, she was celebrating. That bitch Scarlett Johansson actually thought Chanel was going to use her instead of the great and beautiful Kate Moss. When Kate had received the diamond earrings from Alain Wertheimer, the Chairman of Chanel, apologizing for the unfortunate initial decision made by the Chanel CEO, Francoise Montenay, to cancel her modeling contract, Kate smiled. She called her agent, who called Chanel, who renegotiated her contract, upping Kate's compensation by a million pounds per year. That stupid little photograph of her snorting cocaine led to a series of events that made her more money.

Kate's cigarette was burned down to its last quarter centimeter, with a good two centimeters of burned ash still protruding from the front, sloping down. Kate removed the Gauloise from her mouth and tossed it onto the corridor rug. It hit with a little bounce, but continued to burn. So what. Let it burn. There are no consequences, and she was celebrating. Kate removed the key card from her hidden skirt pocket and opened her hotel suite door. The lights turned on automatically in the hotel suite. That’s cute, thought Kate. The hotel room was being paid courtesy of Chanel as an additional gift for welcoming her back to the perfume company. The French; Kate loved them. As if the one million pounds were not enough. They had to give the hotel suite for a week as well as the earrings. Like she really needed it. But hell, with the Zeta Bar downstairs giving her the two bottles of Dom Perignon for free, plus the bowl of strawberries and the two Pina Coladas, which she asked for, Kate had decided to make a nice celebratory weekend of it without the intrusion of Pete Doherty or anyone else.
Kate closed the door behind her and took a swig of champagne directly from the bottle. She placed the bottle down on the thick glass coffee table that sat between two large leather couches. The window beyond had a commanding view of the Mayfair district of London. A wicker gift basket with a card attached was on the coffee table. Another gift? She leaned down, but then lost her balance and fell to the floor. Kate laughed. In public, such moments were embarrassing. But in private, she could be sloppy and drunk and silly, and it all amused her. She noticed that the left string strap holding her tank top snapped, causing the top to fall below her left breast. She hoisted herself up and felt no modesty about her exposed breast. Why should she. She was alone with herself. She was sitting on the floor next to the coffee table. She pulled off her black pumps and massaged the bottom of her feet. This made her laugh too because she felt nothing. Her feet were numb but for some reason this did not bother her. It was the champagne, Kate concluded.

Kate turned her attention to the gift basket and opened the small white envelope and removed a note card. On the card was written with a fountain pen in blue ink "Please accept my apologies." No signature. OK. Now who is this? More people apologizing to her. Alain Wertheimer had already showered her with expensive apologies. Maybe this was Francoise Montenay, the Frenchman that decided to fire her, then was vetoed by the boss, Alain.

Kate reached into the basket and pulled out a bottle of Chanel No. 5. You've got to be kidding me. This is what whoever sent me to apologize? She doesn't even wear the stuff, except when she has to. The idiot. Wait. Wait. What's this. Kate pulled out a plastic Ziploc bag which contained a white powder, a healthy amount of white powder, possibly the size of a large cigar.

Kate Moss rose from the carpeted floor and sat on the leather couch. She grabbed the bottle of Dom Perignon and took another swig, actually a big swig, the alcohol going down her thin throat in gulps. She felt the liquid warm her aging and abused stomach, and she got a rush of dizziness. Not the kind of dizziness associated with nausea, but more that of a gentle high. This surprised her given the amount she had consumed in the last two hours. It must be the site and anticipation of the plastic bag of powder. Cocaine. It must be cocaine. What a gift. Though she had spent a good deal of time in the Arizona desert drying out from drugs, the Arizona thing was more for show than anything. She still smoked her sixty to eighty cigarettes a day. She still was able to drink. Alcohol, that is. She even had a few Demerol here and there to keep her smiling through the burning Arizona sun. As she saw it, it was a vacation.

Kate Moss opened the Ziploc bag and stuck her right index finger in, scooping a small amount of the powder with her unpolished nail. She noticed that her nails were becoming very yellow from the constant nicotine that swirled around her fingers, not to mention in her arteries. Hell. Big deal. There was always polish to cover such things. The powder looked like cocaine. She placed it on her gums. It tasted like cocaine, but then she was so drunk it was really difficult to discern one taste from another. Before she was able to feel the effects of the gum absorption, Kate scooped some more with her nail and snorted a small mound. Well, maybe a big mound. She really didn't focus on the amount.
The drug went straight up into her forehead and seemed to tingle her eyeballs, the tingle spreading around into her temples, and then a drape of a euphoric calm waterfall plunged down into her chest. OK. OK. This was not cocaine. Damn. This felt like heroin. Her throat tightened, which Pete told her might be a sign of too much heroin too fast. Her first instinct was to grab the bottle of Dom Perignon. Kate went with her instinct. She gulped, trying to open her throat with the bubbly liquid. The champagne went down the wrong tube, and Kate started to choke. She then felt a tightness in her chest and had difficulty breathing. Fuck. She was celebrating. Who sent this shit. Pete? Was it Francoise Montenay? Or was it some demented asshole, someone she pissed off? Was it Scarlett Johansson? No. No. It couldn't be Scarlett. Kate was not thinking straight. She tried to stand, but immediately fell backwards, hitting her head on the leather couch.

Kate could feel herself slipping into a sleep state. She opened her eyes and saw the ceiling. She forced herself into an upright position. The bathroom. Get herself to the bathroom, she thought. Cold water. Cold water. She was not going to call for help. The drugs. All the drugs. The bad publicity would start all over again. Of course, she would probably emerge from another bad spat of publicity. But she wanted to deal with this herself. Kate Moss crawled to the bathroom. He white tank top dragged on the rug and completely pulled off, her black skirt also pulled down off her hips. Then Kate felt a sudden urge to vomit. She had to stay awake for this, otherwise she risked choking to death. She raised herself up with her arms and it came in several bursts, vomit, waves of vomit, mostly the champagne and the cashews and the Quail eggs she had at the Zeta Bar. The puke had this disgusting odor, but Kate did not care, she had to get it out of her. She always felt that vomiting was the best medicine for everything. She even did it at the Arizona resort.

The pool of vomit formed on the lush red carpet below her face as she held her chest up with her arms, her bare breasts dangling in a manner that were no longer firm even though small. Kate dropped her head. It was over. It was all out. This is when the wave of swirling dizziness hit like a hurricane. Kate's eyes rolled back into her head, but she had the presence of mind to lower herself, her right cheek coming to rest in the pool of warm vomit as she fell into a deep unconscious sleep.

Twelve hours later, Kate Moss awoke with dried vomit on her face and in her hair. She had fallen with her legs and arms in contorted positions, restricting the flow of blood, and so she barely could feel any of her limbs. She had a pounding headache which she attributed to the champagne and the heroin, not realizing that it was nothing more than a nicotine withdrawal since she had not had a cigarette during the twelve hours of being unconscious, a period of time where she would have normally smoked sixty cigarettes. Kate pushed herself up and slowly stood, her tank top pulled down and her skirt at her knees. She looked up at the mirror that hung on the wall and saw a skinny, disheveled, wasted girl. She smiled because she was so skinny. She smiled because all she saw was a wasted millionaire who would take a shower, have some coffee and a thousand cigarettes and start a new day. More mischief. And no consequences.

Hillary Clinton In A West Virginia Bathroom

Hillary looked at her thin stainless steel wristwatch. The time was 7:45 PM. Her throat had a slight burn from the speech she just gave in a Walmart parking lot to a crowd of Walmart shoppers and employees. There was no microphone, so she had to raise her voice to a level she knew was going to come back and haunt her. Not to mention the dry eyes Hillary confronted from the cool breeze blowing in her face during the Walmart speech. After the crowd gave her a cheer in response to “I am one of you,” Hillary Clinton moved quickly to a black Chevrolet Tahoe and got into the back seat surrounded by Secret Service. Hillary’s next stop was to be Charleston, a good forty-minute drive from the Walmart.

Hillary was alone in the backseat. The driver was Secret Service. In the passenger seat was another Secret Service agent. The side trip to the Walmart had been unplanned, and it threw a bit of chaos into the day because Hillary was not with any campaign staff, who were all waiting for her in Charleston at campaign headquarters. It was the Secret Service, the two in the front seat and the other two in the Chevrolet Suburban behind, that acted as Hillary’s traveling staff, helping her set up at Walmart and announcing Hillary’s presence to the Walmart store manager. The news media was there only because someone in Charleston had thought to send a wire out an hour before she arrived at the Walmart.
Hillary felt tired, her arms heavy, and she could hear herself breathing. As the car moved at sixty miles per hour down a long winding stretch of thick green backwoods, Hillary spotted the Green Tick Diner approaching on the side of the road.

“Stop at that diner. I need to go the bathroom,” said Hillary to the driver.

The Chevy Tahoe pulled into the lot, followed by the Suburban from behind.

The parking lot was empty but for three pickups, all from the 1960s and all Fords and all light blue. Hillary noted the near droning similarity that everything took on for her in West Virginia.

Hillary wanted to throw water on her face and maybe get a Coke. The protocol was that two Secret Service agents were to recon the diner before Hillary left the vehicle. The agent advised the waitress at the register that Mrs. Clinton was planning to use the bathroom. The waitress, maybe about fifty, wearing a red wig with a cigarette dangling from cracked red lips, nodded without any noticeable reaction to the famous visitor in the parking lot. Hillary entered the diner, smiled at the red-wigged waitress and was guided to the ladies room by one of the Secret Service agents. The agent had made certain the bathroom was empty and stood sentry at the door to prevent anyone from entering while Hillary was in the bathroom. As Hillary passed the Secret Service agent, he handed her a black can of Coke Zero which he had purchased from the dirty blond twenty-year old girl that worked the counter. Hillary grabbed the can of Coke Zero without eye contact as she passed the agent and entered door to the bathroom that shut behind her as she looked up into the diner’s ladies room.

The ladies room had three stalls and three sinks. The sinks were embedded in a grey linoleum counter top. The linoleum had the thin-lined boomerang shapes, each about the size of a paper clip, as if thrown on the top randomly. Hillary popped the Coke Zero’s top and took a long swig. She placed the can next to the sink and examined herself in the mirror. She had chosen the sink closest to the door, but it hardly mattered since the mirror she faced was cracked in various places, rivers of break lines running in all directions. One ran through the image of Hillary’s face as she noticed her makeup was caked and uneven from the nearly continuous wind she had faced all day in West Virginia.
She turned the faucet on and cupped her hands, collecting a small pool of cool water drawn from a well in the back of the diner. She splashed the water on her face and grabbed a paper towel from a stack lying on the counter top. She removed her makeup. She did not wish to be caught by the media without makeup, but it was unlikely the media would be anywhere near the Green Tick Diner. And quite frankly, she hated makeup. She found herself lopping on more and more of it to cover up more and more facial lines and hanging eye bags.

The toilet flushed. Hillary stood erect. The stall door, which was not shut, opened and out walked with a slow limp an old woman slumped forward, her head sticking out and down, the hump of her back nearly as high as the top of her skull, which peaked out through thinning silver hair. The old woman did not look at Hillary but moved slowly to the counter top, turned on the faucet and leaned on the linoleum with twisted hands. She was wearing blue jeans and frayed converse sneakers. The jean were cut about two inches above the ankle, exposing very pale skin treaded with blue veins. She was wearing a yellow T-shirt covered with a brown leather jacket.

Hillary glanced at the door with a moment of surprise, half expecting the Secret Service Agent to pop his head in. But the old woman made no noise that would have brought the agent rushing into the bathroom. Hillary relished these private moments, and so was irritated that the agent had not cleared the bathroom. How had he missed this old woman? She thought it was possible that the agent merely noted that each stall door was open and assumed that no one was sitting on any of the toilets. Well, I guess in West Virginia closing a stall door is not customary, Hillary thought.

“You that Clinton chick?” said the old woman as she was looking down at the water running down the drain. The old woman’s body position had not changed since she found her support on the linoleum counter top. It seemed like she was fighting some uncomfort or pain.

Hillary resisted a response. But that would be impolite, and as much as she had been accused of lacking any sense of civility, it was her inclination to be gracious.

“Yes,” said Hillary.

“What you doing here?” said the old woman.

“Well, there’s a primary today, and I am campaigning,” said Hillary.

“They’re ain’t nobody lives in this part,” said the old woman.

“We are driving to Charleston where my campaign headquarters is located,” said Hillary.

“Charleston folk are a bunch of crap-eaters,” said the old woman.

Hillary had never heard the term “crap-eaters” and wanted to ask, but she was then caught off guard.
“Hey, you ain’t that Hillary chick. That Hillary chick is an old hag. You trying to mess with me?” said the old woman as she glared at Hillary.

“No. No. I am Hillary Clinton,” said Hillary.

The old woman stared at Hillary, squinting her eyes.

“Hey, yeah, OK, I see it. You just ain’t got makeup on, is that it? You don’t look half bad without that shit on your face,” said the old woman.

“Thank you,” said Hillary.

“I voted for the black guy. What’s his name?” asked the old woman.

“You voted?” said Hillary.

“At the firehouse. This morning. Voted for the black guy. O somethin’,” said the old woman.
“Obama,” said Hillary.

“Yeah. Him. People ’round here don’t like the black guy cause he’s skinny and always smilin’,” said the old woman.

“Is that right?’ said Hillary.

“Shit. I need a drink. S’pose you could drop me at Bunn’s Bar down the road?” asked the old woman.
Hillary was inclined to tell the old woman that she was in a rush. But that would make no sense, and the old woman seemed to have an accurate bullshit meter.

“I need a drink too,” said Hillary.

“Nah. Bunn’s not for you. It’s filthy. Dirty shit all round. The crap-eaters in Charleston have plenty of clean bars fit for you,” said the old woman.

“What do you drink?” asked Hillary.

“Gin. Gin stinks, and I like to be reminded I’m a drunk. The crap-eaters in Charleston don’t smell their own shit. I like to smell mine. So can you drop me? At Bunn’s? It’s on the way,” asked the old woman.
Hillary really wanted to go to Bunn’s Bar and hang with this old woman for most of the night. She needed a gin too, though she preferred vodka.

“Sure. We’ll drop you off,” said Hillary.

“I voted for the black guy. I ain’t apologizin’. Just saying I voted for the black guy. To be different. And he’s different, you know,” said the old woman.

“Yes. I know. I know,” said Hillary.

Brad Pitt Examines The Perfection Of His Naked Body

Brad Pitt stepped out of the 300 square-foot room that was constructed of pink and yellow crystal granite rocks jutting out from the sides, the flooring made of one large piece of blue slate. The room had four shower heads, and was a work in progress in Brad's Santa Barbara house perched on an ocean-front hill north of the city. The house was small, and Brad used it to hide out and read screenplays. He found that getting out of Los Angeles and away from the hub bub of the entertainment business was essential for him to analyze scripts. His agent, of course, winnowed down the number of submissions received, maybe a few hundred a month, to maybe a dozen scripts. But still, a dozen screenplays was over a thousand pages of reading, and Brad Pitt needed the isolation of his little house north of Santa Barbara.

The large window in the very large bathroom that included the very very large shower faced the Pacific Ocean. The window was irregular, sort of like a contorted porthole, and the glass was hand-cut to fit the unusual opening formed by the same pink and yellow granite that walled the shower Brad just stepped out of. It was not even 7:00 AM, and the morning light turned the quiet Pacific water into a deep blue. There were a few fishing boats with their long stationary angled-up rods on the water, one motor yacht, maybe 90 feet in length, and some early morning joggers on the thin beach below.
Brad grabbed a white towel and started to dry himself when he caught his image in the full-length mirror on the wall. Many assume that Brad Pitt was like most male movie stars: short. But Brad Pitt was not short. He was a tad over six feet, and this came as a surprise to people when they first met him. He was tall and lean and muscular. Not too muscular, just right, thought Brad Pitt as he examined his naked body in the full-length mirror. Damn, he looked good. And at his age; over forty years. It was like time had stopped. He worked hard at his body, but he played hard too, which made him work even harder. But all this hard work and hard play paid off with big paychecks and a nearly perfect body.
Brad thought 'nearly' perfect, but he really could not find a single flaw, not one thing wrong with his body. So he placed 'nearly' in front of 'perfect' as a tip of his hat to humility. His humility, Brad thought, was all part of his perfection.

That was the problem with women. Women always had imperfections. And even when Brad couldn't necessarily articulate what the imperfections were, they were there, in plain site. His ex-wife, Jennifer Aniston, was imperfect in so many ways, but at the moment he couldn't think of what they were. Actually, Brad Pitt was missing Jennifer, and the news of her relationship with Vince Vaughn made Brad miss Jennifer that much more. Jennifer was perfectly — perfectly—? Perfectly plain. That was her imperfection.

But perfectly plain at the moment was something Brad wanted. He was exhausted from the African trip, the whole baby thing was like this weird dream. Spending a month on the West African coast with the woman everyone thought was the sexiest and most beautiful woman on the planet Earth was one long whacked-out experience. In fact, he had started to grow tired of the whirl of intensity that surrounded Angelina Jolie, and how the African birth circus was orchestrated, orchestrated entirely by Angelina even though she made Brad feel that he was totally involved. Yeah right.

But he wasn't involved. But he didn’t know it until he was stuck in Africa. And of course, once there, he had to stay. The woman he got pregnant was giving birth. he had to stay. If he had left, it would have stained his reputation. A small one, he figured, but still a stain.

Africa was too surreal to even be remotely real. Jennifer was real. Jennifer was so real, that Brad hungered to hold her hands and give her a hug. With Angelina, Brad always felt that the physical contact was staged for and by some master director inside Angelina's brain. Brad felt that there was someone else in the room when Brad and Angelina made love. When Brad told an old friend these thoughts, his friend told Brad that it was God in the room: "Angelina was made by God, and so God wants to see his creations in action," Brad's friend said.

Brad finished toweling himself down and stood straight in front of the mirror. He imagined Jennifer with him, standing next to his naked body, Jennifer wearing a sun dress with her perfect legs, her feet bare, her arms crossed in front of her not so large but not so small breasts, her beautiful hands, and fingers wrapped around her biceps. And Jennifer's hair; Brad imagined Jennifer's hair a mess, like they had just made love and Jenn tossed the sun dress on fast and they were going to start their day together.
Brad blinked and Jennifer disappeared. He was alone. With his perfect body and over a thousand pages to read.

Jennifer Aniston Examines Her Naked Body

Jennifer Aniston stood in front of the full-length mirror in her white marble bathroom that had a commanding view of Lake Michigan through the 44th floor window of her Chicago condominium. The building was mostly glass, or appeared that way, and was along Lake Shore Drive. There were a few small sailboats on the lake and a freight-container ship on the horizon. It was morning, not 7:00 AM yet, and the light made the Lake water almost aqua. Upon entering the bathroom, one immediately noticed the Lake view through the large window. But if one entered at this moment, they would also notice the naked Jennifer Aniston standing at a mirror examining her body.

Jennifer was alone. The mirror was along the west wall of the white marble room that contained two under-mounted oval sinks with chrome fixtures. The white toilet was along the east wall. The full length mirror which was occupying Angelina's attention was nestled between sink counter and the wall that faced the Lake.

Jennifer did not like this view of herself. Indeed, naked views were always the most revealing. Jennifer looked good in clothes, even in street nothings she looked good, with her hair and that smile. But the mirror reflecting her naked body screamed plain. Plain. Just plain. Nothing special. Nothing spectacular. Two arms, two breasts, a waist, hips and legs. Not like Brad Pitt's new woman, Angelina Jolie.

Jennifer kept flashing Angelina Jolie's image in her mind. Angelina was a woman, a full-bodied gorgeous creature who was graced by god with perfection, a kind of beauty that pulled attention to it without effort. It had apparently pulled Jennifer's husband away as well.

But here in front of Jennifer was the image of Jennifer’s body that pulled no attention. Jennifer Aniston could almost understand Brad's plight. He had no control. Brad was married to the epitome of plain, a woman with a body that was assembled on an assembly line with union labor with no attention to detail, a Chevrolet or Ford, the garden variety type; but Brad Pitt did not see himself inside a Chevy or a Ford. He wanted to be inside a Bugatti or a Maybach. Jennifer the Chevy. Angelina the Bugatti. What man wouldn't have made the decision that Brad made.

Jennifer Aniston looked back at her body in the mirror and thought of a New York Times critic who called her acting 'one note.' So there you go. Her body is plain, her acting is one note; she had even somehow found herself in what she considered a small apartment in the middle of America, which this morning seemed ordinary. Of course, Jennifer knew that this was a special place, an expensive apartment with an outstanding view, a residence that almost anyone but Saudi royalty would consider special.

Jennifer knew this, on some level. But one has to go with their feelings, and at this moment, at this early morning moment with the morning light hitting the clean Lake water of Michigan, the tiny water ripples reflecting ever-changing sparkles, the air conditioning blowing cool air with a hum out of the ceiling vent, the white marble under her freshly showered feet, Jennifer Aniston was feeling, deeply feeling nowhere, almost like all the money and all the attention was compensation for a big lie. Jennifer was nothing special, deserving of nothing more than the paychecks of the team of union workers who assembled her Chevy body.

And then it hit her. She looked up and saw her body, glanced out at the Lake, took a deep breath of the cool conditioned air, grabbed her round breasts and thought that she was lucky. Afterall, what plain girl has as much as her. She was where she was because despite the Chevy beginnings she was living a Bugatti life.

Luck. It was luck, and it felt good. There is a god. Well, maybe there's a god, she hoped. But there was certainly a lucky girl standing in front of that mirror. Jennifer was going to get dressed and make herself a pot of coffee. A new day. She winked. At herself. Jennifer Aniston decided she preferred Chevys. Chevys were American. Jennifer was American. And she was in Chicago. You can't get any more American than that.

Angelina Jolie Examines The Flaws Of Her Naked Body

Angelina Jolie stood in front of the full-length mirror in her black granite bathroom that had a commanding view of the Pacific Ocean through the wall that was entirely made of bullet-proof glass. The stone house was perched high on a cliff, and the vista though the wall of glass included a few distant sailboats and one oil tanker on the horizon. It was morning, not 7:00 AM yet, and the light made the Pacific water look almost purple. To enter the bathroom is to absorb a sense of awe at the glass wall, the great expanse of the Earth's largest body of water. But if one entered at this moment, they would also absorb a sense of awe at the naked Angelina Jolie standing at a mirror examining her body.

Angelina was alone. The mirror was along the north wall of the black granite room that contained four under-mounted rectangular sinks with brushed nickel fixtures. The black toilet and adjacent black bidet were along the south wall. The full length mirror which was occupying Angelina's attention was nestled between the two counters, each containing two of the four sinks.

Angelina did not like this view of herself. Indeed, naked views were always the most revealing. One could not hide flaws behind designer clothes and tight fitting undergarments that shaped one's outward appearance. Here, in the privacy of her southern California bathroom, Angelina saw what most did not see.

She saw her very long and thin legs. Check. That was good.

She saw her very long and thin arms. Check. That was good.

She saw her long neck. Check. That was good.

She saw her porcelain complexion. Check. That was good (though the pregnancy had caused some blemishes. Minor. Not a worry.)

She saw her face. A total big check. That was the best thing going. So everyone said. Who was she to disagree.

But then she saw the middle, the part few ever saw, the part that was so cleverly disguised by the distractions of long legs and a beautiful face. The middle was short, the distance from hips to shoulders was too short for the length of her legs and arms. In addition, her middle was soft. There was no six-pack of muscles, now definition at all, actually. She was soft, as she had always been. When she lost weight, the weight would come off everywhere but the middle. The middle only gave up fat when she starved herself. And since she just gave birth, her middle was softer than usual.

Now the bad part. The breasts sagged. They were very large and hung down. This was not due to age, just body type. And the breasts enhanced the impression that Angelina's middle was big. They, the two large breasts that is, were soft as well. Very soft. Angelina had thought of breast reduction surgery, but she decided against it, having a visceral reaction against any plastic surgery.

So there she was in one of the most outstanding bathrooms on the planet Earth with one of the most commanding views money could buy, and she was focused on what anyone in Western world would be focused on if they were in that bathroom with her. Angelina's naked body.

Brad Pitt had noticed her body as well. Angelina knew that Jennifer Aniston's body was actually better proportioned than hers. Aniston's body had the more pleasing esthetic, and in the nude, Aniston's middle was just the right size and shape for her legs and arms. Angelina had Aniston beat on the face front. Sort of. She had guessed, and was ashamed to admit that she even thought about such things. But Angelina had seen Brad examine the Angelina Jolie body. Brad betrayed a certain minor disgust at the large soft middle, though he denied it when Angelina poked fun at him without betraying her own actual concern for Brad Pitt's opinion on the matter.

Why did she care? Well, she said to herself, she cared because of the baby. She cared because she wanted a normal family. And she wanted it to remain that way. Angelina Jolie anted Brad Pit and her to remain together. Fat chance, right, in Hollywood. Brad had already started to act ever so slightly distant since they returned to Los Angeles. And she overheard a conversation Brad had with Jennifer Aniston that was a little too comfortable for her taste.

Mirrors. Damn mirrors. They made you paranoid. What was she worried about. She was gorgeous. Soft in the middle. Big deal. The hell with it. She was healthy. She had a good attitude. Certainly healthier than the chain-smoking Jennifer Aniston. And Angelina was diving back into her work. Her work. Her baby. Her beautiful view. Her beautiful bathroom. Her beautiful life. No complaints.
Angelina gave herself a wink. It was a twenty-million dollar wink. Roll the cameras. Let's get back to work. Give her a note. Give her some direction. She’ll make the scene work. She’ll make it work.