No. 13

When my Malibu mansion, aka Tallulah Rosemary, burned down in a forest fire two summers ago, it was like a little part of me inside (something akin to the deceased embryo of the twin I never had still lying inside of me?) died.  You might not believe that a person can become a part of their house and vice versa (have you never seen a horror movie?), but in this case, the house and I, we were like kindred spirits.  It was my home away from home away from home.  We broke in the new millennium in that house, and my water broke during my phantom pregnancy in that house.  It was truly a vessel to the soul.  And then suddenly, and literally, it was gone with the wind, just like that.  Ashes to ashes, so to speak.

Home is where the heart is, that’s what they say.  Absolutely true, but I also say this: hell is where the heart is.  I’ve really been through so much in the past two years, what with my leaky boob and the aforementioned blaze, along with the dissolution of my non-profit QVC jewelry line, and nearly being shot by a poacher during the African safari last year.  So we’ll see.  I think I might be overdue for a visit my psychic, Gina.  If nothing else, I need some frank advice about what is happening with my hair (which, by the way, has managed to look like a typhoon rolled through it every morning this week).  Oh, and I need to find out whether the amusement park investment will be worthwhile, roller coasters and all.

P.S. diary, 13 has always been my lucky number.