To the Lot of You

By Jacquelline Faithe Price

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To the Lot of You,

It has come to my attention that you desire that I explain, no, defend myself. I, the daughter of the multi-billion elite, found to be partying, sexing, drugging, and doing all manner of things many of you do without the same level of scrutiny. While normally I would tell you outright to go f*^! yourselves, an event occurred in my life yesterday that I deem worthy of international pop culture awareness. Hence my decision to post this publicly on your celebrity “news” website.

In high school, my parents hired a boy of 21 just beginning college to tutor me. In his presence, I did most of those things you accused me of then—I paraded around in my bath towel, played with the bits of hair that extended to his cheek, and attempted every manner of seduction. He was very kind in his refusals, but he refused nonetheless. Eventually, I grew tired of my own behavior, and I eventually let him do what he was there to do—tutor me. It was then I realized what my banality caused me to miss.

Over the next two years, I led a second life with him, one where I would complement his writing and kindness, and in return, he would remind me that I had quite a way with domestic animals and the animals I refused to view as food sources. This was around the time you suggested that I was on a crazy fad diet, “The Water Chestnut Diet” as you called it, a result of several eating disorders.

When the time came for me to attend university, I opted for affordability over prestige, much to the confusion of my parents. They were, however, happy to hear the boy would be in attendance as well. I think you mentioned this in some article—“Drunk Socialite Attends Top Party School”—was that the title? No, it was something a bit more dangerous.

“The Heroin Heroine” was perhaps your most creative labeling of my college experience. One night at a party in my second year, a belligerent, drunken intellectual proceeded to inform me that my presence was lowering the standard of the university. At first, his voice was low, but rose as his analysis of my person extended. It upset me, and so I left. I was walking home from class one evening in an unlit part of campus where, in retrospect, I should not have been. He approached me and took hold of me as no human being should. Perhaps I will never know what his ultimate intentions were for; if there is anything money can afford, it is ten years of top karate lessons, but one can speculate. While I reported the situation and it was handled immediately, unlike the assault cases of other women less financially privileged, I was shaken. Shaken so badly that even you kindly reported that I was a drug-addicted recluse. The boy came over that evening, and we took turns watching one another sleep, sometimes connecting in between the unspoken shifts.

We continued our friendship until this “crazy co-ed” wanted something more. At one particular party, I, the boy, and a classmate were all passing around a joint. When it was my turn, I leaned in and held it close to both of our lips. Then I kissed her. She did not resist. I suggested that the three of us ought to retire to an undisclosed location in the home of our hosts. We ended up in a cold, damp basement with a washer and dryer and crusty poker table with three folding chairs. She and I began pressing against the washer, and he stood watching, undressing, and then sitting in a chair. Eventually, he motioned for us both to come over, and I stood kissing the back of his head, caressing his chest until it was my turn. I kissed him for the first time, naked.

I do believe “Third-World Threads” was the title you gave to each of my outfits because the cost alone could apparently supply an underdeveloped country with enough food for a year, although I question the accuracy and political correctness of that statement. During the year he and I spent apart from one another while I completed my undergraduate degree, I sometimes returned home to find my parents hosting those gratuitous parties you often shamed me for, parties filled with suitors of their selection. I quickly distanced myself from this, connecting more deeply with the friends and the life we made together. Then I applied for veterinary school. I always thought that I would focus solely on domestic animals, but who knew I could excel at dealing with such large, exotic creatures. And if memory serves me, it was a year into this program that you stopped reporting on me altogether for completely unknown reasons.

Around the following fall is when the stomach pains began. First, he reported cramps, which then transitioned into screams. The doctors diagnosed it immediately. Once the treatments began, I no longer had locks of hair that extend to a cheek to play with. And then I barely had flesh upon bones to caress. And this brings me to your news. Yesterday I married the man.

Unlike the gold-digging ring whose presence you so often implied was at the secret marriages of my early twenties, an extremely reasonable age for a girl to be secretly marrying people on the fly, my real secret marriage contained no ring. We will not be spending our honeymoon on my private island, but rather in a sterile room reiterating “no Jell-O.” You are the first to know of my marriage, and although I abhor the consumption of animals, since they keep bringing it, you may help yourself to our ceremonious Jell-O. So, after all those years, there it is. The life of a bratty drunken gold-digging heroin-addicted recluse and crazy bisexual socialite. And the man she loves.



– Jacquelline Faithe Price