Psychos: A White Girl Problems Book (15 page)

“I am gay,” he said in the straightest way ever. I was so into him.

“Oh, okay, cool. Yeah, I figured.” Oh well, worth a shot.

I found a table in the corner, settled in with my pen and Moleskine, lit the first joint, and pressed play on a playlist I’d curated on the plane ride to the Netherlands. I make playlists when I need to get out of my head and/or when I feel bloated; it eases the racing thoughts and de-puffs my waistline. This particular list consisted of songs that I felt represented my state of mind at the time. So, that meant a lot of Kate Bush, a lot of old Whitney Houston, and a little bit of good No Doubt. I was a complex California girl with something to say.

I spent the next few hours sketching some of my lost belongings, in memoriam. I called it
Taken: The Soul Cries.

I could tell that being in Amsterdam was helping me grow as an artist. I completely lost track of time, which is what happens when you do nothing but smoke medical-grade pot for hours, and when I emerged from Friends and Family it was night. Feeling happy, airy, and free, I embarked on an aimless journey along one of the canals on Keizersgracht. I was in an amazing mood. I had altogether forgotten about the Robert issue, the Cal issue,
and my stalker issue. I was feeling social, so I told a few swans floating through the canal that they were chic. They didn’t respond, but I sensed that they understood.

There were so many people on the street, and by people I mean scary tourists and drunk college kids. I get that I was also a tourist, but I didn’t feel like one. Come to think of it, I never feel like a tourist, and yet, no matter where I am I always feel like everyone around me is. I was constantly becoming more aware of myself.

Anyway, I obviously wasn’t interested in making friends with anyone I saw stumbling down the cobblestone streets. Lined up conveniently along the bank of the canals were glass doors, each lit only by one red light. Behind each door stood a girl in what looked like good lingerie but that had to be bad, cheap, and probably dirty. These women (girls? children? mothers?) looked super friendly, and some of them were even beckoning me to come closer. I perused my options, judging each of them by the way they stood and the way they presented themselves. They were totally hookers, but at the time I had no clue. I just thought they were friendly people behind glass doors, obvs.

I approached one girl because she kind of resembled Rihanna, with wide, optimistic eyes and a blond weave.

“Come in,” she said to me, smiling and sliding open the glass door. “I’m Femke.”

Once I was in the small room, which smelled like vanilla and bodies, Femke closed the door and pulled down a curtain, giving us some privacy. There was a bed, a chair, a sink, and a red lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. Very editorial. I sat on the chair and lit a cigarette.

“You’re not gonna kill me, are you?” I asked politely.

“Ah, you are American? I loooove America.” Her accent was thick as shit, so I laughed.

“So, you’re not gonna kill me?”

“Whatever you want, darling,” she purred.

“Cute. I’m Babe, I’m from LA. You know what LA is?”

“Yes, I know what LA is. You think I’m fucking moron?” she said coyly, leaning up against the pinkish wall, arching her back. Her body was actually kind of amazing. And she had gorgeous caramel skin.

“You’re, like, way prettier than you need to be, right? Do you get that a lot?” I remarked.

“You are very pretty too, LA girl. Nice hair.”

“Oh, no, my name’s Babe. You can call me that. People in rehab used to call me ‘LA Girl,’ among other names.” I continued to take long drags from my European Marlboro Light. I was totally getting into the weird scene and the buzz from the cigarette was sobering me up a bit, which in turn caused me to start realizing that Femke was a hooker and not a friend-for-rent, or whatever I thought she was.

“Nice to meet you, Babe.” With that, she slipped the cigarette from my hand and took a few drags herself. She took off her bra and tossed it onto the bed. Great tits.

“Love that name, Femke. Very model-y.”

“Dank je.”

“Que?”

“It means ‘thanks.’ ”

“Oh, right.”

“I used to want to be model. I follow all of the big ones. Christy, Kate, Karolina, Laetitia. I read all the big magazine.”

“You like fashion?” I was actually shocked.

“I love fashion. You think I want to do this job forever?”

“I don’t know, I’ve always thought being a hooker must be kind of terrifying. But then there are days when I think it’s the chicest job there is.”

“Chic?” she asked, handing me back my smoke.

“Chic,” I repeated.

“What is this?”

“What is what?”

“Chic.”

“What?”

“What is this, ‘chic’? I see all of time in magazine. We don’t have this word in Dutch.”

“Oh . . . wow,” I said. I was dumbfounded. I don’t think I’d ever had to define the word
chic
before. Not in my entire life. Chic was just chic. I had no clue how to define it using only the mere English lexicon. How could a word so important, such a pillar of my being, be so hard to define?

I put my cigarette out in a little heart-shaped ashtray near the bed, found a hair thing in the bottom of my bag, and proceeded to tie Femke’s blond weave up into a tight yet messy bun. Then I took the navy cashmere Miu Miu cardigan that I had been using as a scarf and gave it to her to pull over her bare chest.

“Fits perfect, I knew it would,” I said.

Then I slipped out of my black crocodile Tom Ford pumps and kicked them to Femke’s feet. She slid into the shoes, hunched a bit, and cocked her head to the left like a model (she knew her shit), and was magically a new girl. Tight bun, tight cardigan, black panties and pumps. It was kind of major, actually, and I
was very impressed with my styling. I pulled out my phone to snap a photo.

“Look sad,” I directed. She gave me a brilliant scowl.

Handing her the phone to look at the photo, I happily proclaimed, “That is chic.”

Femke and I spent the next two hours talking—talking about bodies, talking about sex, and smoking Dutch cigarettes. I told her about rehab, my book, Robert, Cal, my stalker, and Leo. She told me about the different types of penises she’s seen, and the time someone accidentally shat on her. We laughed a lot. There was a certain freedom in knowing nothing about each other. The newness of our bond was something I hadn’t felt with someone in a while. My life had been so inundated with issues from my past, but Femke represented my future. She was my Pretty Woman, my Julia. I asked her to move to LA to be my assistant/bff, but she said she couldn’t move because she had five kids to take care of. I totally understood. Kids first.

I settled up with Femke and decided I wasn’t ready for my night to end. So I went to the Van Gogh museum, but being that it was 4 a.m., the doors were bolted. So I lay down on an open lawn near the museum and Google image searched “Van Gogh paintings” while smoking more cigarettes for about three hours until the sun rose. It was fucking major.

Turns out Van Gogh was, like, deeply troubled. He had every disease that anyone has ever had, and also sold only one painting before he died in 1890. He was completely unknown while he was alive. I think my life will be like that: underappreciated until I’m long gone.

I eventually found my way back to the hotel and took another long soak in the tub. I mean, Femke was cute and everything, but her little room was fucking disgusting, and I wasn’t trying to catch another VD from a Dutch whore. Just kidding, I’ve never had a VD. Just kidding.

S
o I ended up staying in Amsterdam for a little longer than two days. I was into this city. I even adopted its sense of style. Yes, I was royally fucked out of my head for most of my stay, which is why I firmly (albeit momentarily) believed that the Dutch had the best fashion sense in the world. Gone was my urge to present as a carefully disheveled ambassador of color. All I cared about was black. Outside of a particularly dark phase I went through during my freshman year of college, I had never fully realized the potential of dressing in all black. I could be a vision of drapeyness in Rick Owens, or structural meets slouchy in a combination of Céline and Ann Demeulemeester. The world was my dark oyster. I even went so far as to dye my hair obsidian, pierce my nipples, and experiment with different dramatic eyeliner shapes.

I started doing special facial exercises to ensure my cheekbones would be sharp as knives. I wanted to look impenetrable, dangerous. My inclination toward all things colorless probably had to do with where I was emotionally, combined with all the hallucinogens I was taking. When you’ve made a full-time job of doing drugs, drawing, and not really speaking to anyone, the last thing you want is to look in the mirror and have your sartorial choices ricochet your fragile mind into the throes of utter
insanity. No. You must become your own beacon of stability. Therefore: blackness is key.

I took a vow of silence from my family and friends in LA and decided to communicate with them only through the power of imagery, meaning I group texted everyone I knew one portrait of myself per day. Conveying my daily state of being through photography instead of words was a fun challenge. Who needs words, anyway? Sentences are overrated. I was also doing a lot of sketching in parks around the city, and could feel my soul expanding. I was actually—dare I say it?—calm. I’d evaded whomever had been stalking me (thank God); I hadn’t received a death threat the entire time I’d been in Amsterdam. I could drink coffee for hours, walk around the city, sketch, lie in grassy knolls, text photos to loved ones and ex-boyfriends, shop, text more photos, take a pill, put on eyeliner, go clubbing at night with Femke, and stare into space for hours. I was engaged in a truly fulfilling lifestyle. Much like the Britney Spears song, I was stronger than yesterday.

One morning, as I returned to my hotel from a wild night at this leather-daddy dance party called Filth Master, I noticed a sort of chic girl standing at the front desk having a quiet and controlled meltdown. She was wearing a Dolce & Gabbana crop top and miniskirt, which was kind of loud for 7 a.m., but caught my eye due to all the mushrooms I was on, so I sat down on a suitcase that I thought was a chair and watched her lose her shit. I live for confrontation when I’m tripping.

“You do not seem to understand that I have a standing annual reservation,” she stated to the meek hotel attendant with a handlebar mustache standing behind the desk. “Please check the computer system again. The name is Thalia Alexandrov.”

“Ma’am, we have nothing reserved under the surname Alexandrov.”

Sighing, she reached into her Kelly and pulled out a wad of cash, placing it lightly on the counter. “There must be other suites available. This is the only place in the city that knows Magnus’s walking and feeding schedules.”

She was referring to the massive white Pyrenees mountain dog sleeping next to her on the floor.

“Unfortunately, Miss Alexandrov, we are full. May I recommend Hotel de l’Europe . . . ?”

“That will not do,” she muttered darkly, putting the cash back in her purse.