When I am dead and 6-feet under, or—fingers crossed—in one fancy-ass urn placed above a loved one’s fireplace, my family will reminisce the times they had with me.
With any luck, they will have little to no account of time they had spent with me while alive. I was either too busy with work, traveling country to country reporting on current events or filing another divorce from one of my world-famous politician husbands.
With my rock-hard abs glistening in the sun of the photographs laid out through my mansion in Rome, which was only obtainable through rigorous training in tennis and swimming, my audience will remember me as one of the most-influential journalists of their time.
My fastidious ways in nutrition intake and daily Botox shots to my face challenged the righteous hippie-loving, left-wing liberals controlling the nation. Even my orange-smeared skin tone offended Willy Wonka Oompa Loompa lovers.
My twin daughters were shipped off to boarding school before they could speak their first words; the epidural was enough of a task for me. Don’t even mention the egotistical, narcissistic and arrogant sons that I managed to squeeze out between my legs.
Not only did I live life to the fullest, my breasts did as well, causing tremendous back pain for the rest of my life. I didn’t have to worry much though; the doctor that I was having an affair with supplied me with enough vicodin to place me on cloud nine with Bob Marley.
All said and done, this would be the legacy that I left behind. But let’s be realistic here for a second, what woman wouldn’t want this type of legacy after dying? Who wouldn’t want to look in the mirror and see an exact replica of a Barbie doll with the personality of Chelsea Handler?
I know I would.