Rejection Report

Let's see, I awoke this afternoon to find a rejection email from my former agent.

Not commercial or marketable enough. Not unique enough to distinguish it enough from other cancer memoirs.

Now, aside from the fact that publishing is a machine as commercial as the Hollywood machine, let's discuss how ass-backwards this rejection is.

First of all, be honest. Tell me it sucks and I'd have a lot more respect for you than you following the party line.

Second, third, fourth, 100th. Not marketable or unique enough? Nigga please. (I can say that now that I'm with a black hip hop artist.)

Tell me what other "cancer memoir" includes a 32-year-old hot, funny, talented, spoiled, social, well-connected, perfectionist who glides into the hospital with a gaggle of girlfriends as if it's Bergdorf's. Who is having a true love affair with a multi-platinum award-winning black musician with three kids and a soon-to-be-ex wife. Who decided to throw a party and register at Neiman's minutes after being diagnosed with BC. Who describes her upcoming double mastectomy procedure as "lopping 'em off and putting better ones back on." Who dons her best clothes and baubles for hospital visits. Who shows off her cancer hospital cards as if they're black cards. Who manages to get in with the top breast cancer expert in the world, knowing that he doesn't even take new patients. Whose trip to the fabulous Upper East Side wigmaker to the stars will be followed by a fabulous New World Symphony party and forays to 47th St. and Fifth Avenue. Whose family is as fucking crazy as the Bluths of Arrested Development. Who is looking forward to chemo because it means no shaving for four months anywhere. That's right, a painless Brazilian for four months. (Well, treatment may hurt a little, but shit, not shaving for four months? Totally worth it, right ladies?) Who called her reconstructive plastic surgeon yesterday and asked him to throw in some Botox with the pre-op consult. Who embarks with her friends on a fruitless quest for Playboy so she can handpick her new tits. (As an aside, I've been to two sex shops and every gas station and bookstore looking for Playboy. None of these motherfuckers carry Hugh's rag. Shit, I bet I can get to Hugh with no more than a few calls.) Whose Miami shrink will attend the operation—along with about 20 family and friends—and whose Beverly Hills shrink offered to fly in. Who has secured a private, VIP suite at Mt. Sinai, when they are exclusively reserved for hospital founders. Whose already razor-sharp wit is heightened after diagnosis. Whose standard answer to the "how are you" question is, "Aside from the breast cancer, I'm fabulous!" Whose beautiful beau, whilst professing his love for her says, "Breasts, no breasts, hair no hair, that's not ever going to change my feelings for you." Whose card table is littered with gifts from Neiman's and Saks. Who is seeing the bright side of chemo—no driving, no blow-drying, no shaving, losing weight and being catered to. Who has people flying in from all over the world—on private planes, natch—to care for her. Whose life was a fiery ball of drama before the BC struck.

Oh, the list goes on. You guys, my loyal readers, haven't seen anything yet.

So for the formulaic, unadventurous agents out there: It's cool. In 6 months roll up the New York Times Magazine with my photo on the cover and smack yourself on the head with it.