Famous

I've often wondered what it would be like to be famous. Everyone would know what I'd done and accomplished, or at least my name. Everyone would read my Twitter, post vapid comments, follow me. I'd be out in the world, with my name on the magazines and my hand in someone else's, a big glossy picture on a big glossy tabloid with eye-catching headlines and gossip-fragments. People would talk about me in their empty conversations while whispering in class or painting their nails. I'd know loads of attractive guys who, really, can't be all bad. My phone would be loaded with famous contacts, and I'd have two of them; one for close friends and one for "status friends". I'd have lots of money and a personal trainer who'd whip me into shape, and a stylist that would pour me into the latest fashions, the latest styles. I'd be out from my sister's shadow. And everyone would know exactly how I was feeling.