…that is, without the Godforsaken Tabloids Prying into their Private Affairs Constantly!

Faithful readers,

I imagine you’ve all become increasingly agitated recently: reading all about my comings and goings — my goings and comings and the numerous fabricated and exaggerated tales of my supposed shenanigans, rabble-rousing and other malarkey the riff-raff tabloids have continued to propagate, notwithstanding the relentless efforts of my legal staff.  You’ve been anxious, I understand, for me to appear in this forum and yet again, set the record straight.

I’ll have you know, I ordinarily don’t get out of bed for less than 10k.

I’d like to preface by mentioning and elaborating on the prequel to several presuppositions that may have been mercilessly thrust upon you by said media-satan-industrial-complex.

As you well know, 2012 was a tough year for the divine universe as a whole.  Without going into the nitty-gritty, dear readers, just look back on some of the biggest news stories of the year for crying out loud!  Awful, just awful.  Furthermore, according to my analyst, my numerologist and my parapsychologist, 2012 proved particularly difficult for a strong and determined yet innately sensitive soul like myself. 

I was forced to spend months on end at a holistic spa at the beginning of 2013 being pampered, swaddled and massaged…just to cope! The horror!

Now, you’ve all known of the on-again/off-again flirtation and then affair I’d been carrying on with a certain Rottweiler over the course of several years.  At first, he seemed a rather solid and handsome fellow on the outside — albeit wounded from past experiences – as we all are.  Presumably, no real harm in that.

Eventually I could not deny, however, that there was an odd void — an aloofness in his gaze, an often severe glitch in his behaviour.  Over time, it became alarmingly clear that there were manifold subcutaneous afflictions.  Though it was vexing, indeed, to recently discover his deceitful and otherwise unsavory ways of the past, I was comforted to learn, in the end, that he’d been entirely inbred — and that the inbreeding had afflicted him with an awful irreversible condition including panic biting and schizoid personality disorder.  That — and the whole his-balls-being-cut-off-thing made him an entirely inappropriate suitor.

Also, it explained one kinky (unbeknownst to me!) night when I woke up shocked to see my gorgeous Italian leather collar had been chewed up to smithereens.  Eee gads!

One particularly scandalous evening he wanted to wear this contraption and get into some “freaky shit.” I told him I’d pooped in his bed once, and that was as crazy as things were going to get.

Following the dissolution of the affair, I had several heart to heart conversations with my dear friend Emma, a Chocolate Lab with neurological problems.

I see what you are thinking…just don’t.

It’s funny how Emma can sometimes be so wise when it comes to more complex matters of the heart or statistical sociology, but when it comes to things like not walking into parking meters, throwing herself into oncoming traffic or pooping in cross-walks, she can be so dim!  She is a country dog, after all.

Well it turned out dear Emma seemed to reinforce this absolutely dull, typical, insipid notion that is often thrown around in self-help manuals: “Are you being open enough?  Perhaps you are focusing too much on superficial qualities?”  Well I’m sorry, but advice makes me pout.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

After that, I spent a bit of time trying to get my head on straight….which for me undoubtedly involves copious amounts of fine alcohol, towers of chilled shellfish, massages, spa retreats, amphetamines, fun European cough syrup, a PCP laced marijuana cigarette (I swear I didn’t know!!!) and an evening of Bolivian cocaine and Cuban cigars that culminated in the hot tub with several Icelandic Sheepdog male models.

WHAT?  A lady has her needs too.

Just a whisper of vermouth s’il vous plait.

Then of course came the string of residual inappropriate suitors — a highly neurotic Whippet with horrible game, a needy Old English Sheepdog with pretentious conversational tendencies, and a really darling fun-loving Golden Retriever with absolutely no long-term potential.

A bit of time passed while I regrouped — then quite unexpectedly, while attending a society mixer, an American Hairless Terrier with a razor sharp wit and seemingly high potential appeared.  Well that fizzled out after he showed signs of split personality — a trait often associated with poor upbringing and training or being weaned from one’s mother too early — or is it too late?  One never knows these days.

Anywho, he later was seen out and about with an exceedingly plain Jill Russel terrier with an egregious yap and unsightly fur.  This is just what I’ve heard.  I’m only presenting the facts as they’ve come my way, you see.

So now, before you judge me, you must understand and agree that when one puts forth faith that a certain being is one way, and then that being turns out to be an entirely other way altogether…why it shakes up one’s faith in Dog!  And after all — as they say, “In Dog, We Trust”…

As I’ve said before, a Lady has her needs, dammit!

Moving right along, I’m sure you’ve heard the exaggerated hubbub that followed: stories of my romantic rendezvoussssss in far off places, canoodling with a well known actor in the corner of the Washington Square Park dog run, being hit on by Taylor Swift at a late-night after party.

But my dear friends, I implore you — do not take this all at face value.  In the fast life — this life of fortune and fame — you’re dammed if you do, and dammed if you don’t.  I just can’t win!  And as Rosie Perez once said in “White Men Can’t Jump,” (tragically, this clip has been removed everywhere on the Internet):

“Sometimes when you win, you really lose, and sometimes when you lose, you really win, and sometimes when you win or lose, you actually tie, and sometimes when you tie, you actually win or lose. Winning or losing is all one organic mechanism, from which one extracts what one needs.”

So like the hideous moth who hibernates in its own cocoon and emerges a glorious butterfly — or like the practically deformed young duckling who eventually emerges a graceful swan…I too shall overcome, even if it involves sedatives, a perfectly sculpted Latino cabana boy feeding me grapes (or preferably hot dog slices), a handle of Jack Daniels and watching mindnumingly awful but amazing movies for the next three weeks.

And so, my friends, until the sun comes out (and no, it won’t be tomorrow as I check accuweather.com every 15 minutes and hit refresh obsessively) I bid you adieu,

Lady Bianca Miller