Anna Nicole Smith:
The Annotated Biography
The Annotated Biography
The following is the actual biographical text "written" by Smith on her official website. It has been annotated in pink by me.
Let’s see, I was born near Houston, Texas. (There is nothing else regarding either my family or childhood that I have any pride or happiness in, nothing I could tell you that wouldn't break the illusion. My past is a gremlin, a nothing, a sour dismal patch that I have been trying to run away from all my life.)
I'm an international model and have been on numerous magazine covers worldwide. I was crowned Playboy Playmate of the Year. I was also the Guess! Jeans Model. (I realized early on that I had no inherent worth outside of my body; this bothered me, but I decided to embrace it and use it like a tool, as passionless and calculating as a sliderule. When I was stripping I would see these women who let it hurt them, who dared opened their hearts, who dared think that maybe they deserved better and let that dangerous presumption batter their lives with guilt and shame. Victims. And if there is one thing I want you to know, more than anything else, it was that I was not a victim. It was all an equitable exchange of goods. I never attached my heart to it. It didn't hurt me. That is what I want you to know. Don't pity me. Don't you dare fucking pity me.)
I'm an international model and have been on numerous magazine covers worldwide. I was crowned Playboy Playmate of the Year. I was also the Guess! Jeans Model. (I realized early on that I had no inherent worth outside of my body; this bothered me, but I decided to embrace it and use it like a tool, as passionless and calculating as a sliderule. When I was stripping I would see these women who let it hurt them, who dared opened their hearts, who dared think that maybe they deserved better and let that dangerous presumption batter their lives with guilt and shame. Victims. And if there is one thing I want you to know, more than anything else, it was that I was not a victim. It was all an equitable exchange of goods. I never attached my heart to it. It didn't hurt me. That is what I want you to know. Don't pity me. Don't you dare fucking pity me.)
I'm also an Actress. (Was it easy for me all the time to be only sought after for my tits and ass, quarters tossed my way so I could flash some leg, flash some photog, given fat checks to show up at parties and events lit and half-conscious, like a clown, like a bovine sacrifice to point at so you could feel better about your own little lives? You think I didn't respect myself, that I didn't want more for my life, when in reality I was a master at making the most of what I had. I was a fucking great actress.)
I had my own show on E!. (Yeah, I realize that E! was just making fun of me the whole time, but I used them as much as they used me. I gave them nothing for their money, just shit, and then they shovelled that shit to the public. And the public laughed at me but the joke was on them because they were the ones watching the shit. Now who's more pathetic?)
Is it just me or does controversy seem to follow me around? (I had a charming way of acting all Shirley Temple on sexual overdrive, lisping and putting my index finger to my lips, as I joked about those things that were killing me, didn't I?)
And, of course, I am TRIMSPA’s most famous customer. (Losing all that weight in such a short time to fulfill my contract...did you really think it was all TrimSpa? Remember that phrase, "results not typical?" I mean, duh... But of course I'll bet you already knew that, what a fucking phoney I was, because you're just such a better person than a fucking dumb whore like myself, right? Dumb silicone bitch Anna? I guess it was all for nothing anyhow, in a way. But I looked really good when they wheeled me out; I must have pictured that scene a thousand times, but I was concerned about all the vomit. I'm glad they cleaned the vomit out of my mouth before they took the pictures. I don't think Marilyn vomited, did she? Or maybe she did but they cleaned her mouth out; that's what I think happened.)
There’s so much more, but bios are boring and I don’t feel like writing any more. (You can lecture me about "the life left unexamined is blah blah blah terrible," but trust me you don't want to go there, you don't want to stare at that blank canvas of ceiling as your eyesight stutters in and out and you feel the depth-charge in your chest as the vomit erupts and you're too exhausted, too dizzy and stoned-up to care. In the end, it was just that hotel ceiling; to get away from it, I tried to lull my head into my pillow, at least that was soft and dark and discouraged examination. Besides, everything you need to know about me you already know, right? Probably better than myself? Are you so sure of yourself and what you read on the Internet and what CNN and Fox and Entertainment Tonight tells you? You think I was such a miserable person, worthless, a gold-digger, a prostitute, a terrible mother, a drug addict -- you all think that but you can't stop talking about me. What does that say about all of you? What do you know about being poor and female and idealized as a sexual object since puberty? I should have "respected myself more," right? What do you know about having no future and no husband, a teenager with a two-year-old child working at a no-name fast food joint, feeling loveless and desperate, just like my mother was?
What else do you need to know? (I've taken it -- the real me -- to the grave. I won. You might have laughed at me, called me a cow, a dumb bitch, but I got the last fucking laugh. They all touched me, saw me naked, whatever, but nobody got to that golden spot inside of myself. See? I didn't let them get there. I won.)
What else do you need to know? (I've taken it -- the real me -- to the grave. I won. You might have laughed at me, called me a cow, a dumb bitch, but I got the last fucking laugh. They all touched me, saw me naked, whatever, but nobody got to that golden spot inside of myself. See? I didn't let them get there. I won.)
