She was famous for being famous, an "It" girl from birth, proclaimed a "Star" by her mother who saw to it she got everything – nothing was too good for her: the best schools, the best shops, the best clothes, the best of everything, floating effortlessly through a world that reflected her glory back at her from the moment she could pull herself up by pudgy fingers and look in the mirror herself – silver wasnt good enough for her mouth; her spoon was platinum set with diamonds forming her initials even before she knew how to read them– it was only right.

There were no consequences, her luck, her glory, placed her upon a platform of self-promoted, money-fueled adoration; had she been anyone else, nobody would have noticed her –money protected her, dumping her into the hopper that was her, and her alone, grinding her up; returning her to herself as her and her only – Tiffanys, Dolce & Gabbana, Prada, Chanel and Choo blinding her with her own incandescence in a trail of perfumed Chihuahuas, champagne and heroin– it was her right.

So, doubtlessly as she hung cocooned and dying in the warren that was once Tiffany's, had she been in any condition to notice, the creature which tore out of her self-promoted torso with such force that her perfect breasts ruptured, sending bloody twin bags of silicone flying bore the beginnings of a tall, bony crown upon its eyeless head, a queen indeed, she would have said– "Who else?"