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Jada's Journals ~ sex, scandals and superstars

Posted by: Jada on Wednesday, April 11, 2007 - 03:41 AM
Excerpts of my Journals Hi everyone,

Thank you so much for all the nice things you've said about my writing! I really appreciate that you're coming to read bits of my journals -- every Wednesday I get to post more for you to read until the book is ready for publication.

Free reads! How cool is that? :-)

Thanks for reading, Jada

Excerpt from Jada's Journals ~ sex, scandals and superstars (c) 2007 Jada Nichols. All Rights Reserved.

Ever been to the corner of Hollywood and Cahuenga? Not the world's most glamorous bus stop. Trust me. Dirt and spit on the famous stars embedded in the sidewalk. Crack dealers cluttering up alleys littered with needles and used condoms. Graffiti's in Spanish. I mean, please people. It's America. Speak English.

Don't get me wrong, prejudiced I'm not— I speak both. Comes from having a dark Irish father and a drop-dead gorgeous Hispanic mom—both second generation Americans. No hyphenates in our family. We're proud to be Americans! Besides, what would I be? An Irish/Mexican-American with two Danish, a German, and one Italian drop-in on my dad's side and a touch of Asian in my mom's Latin bloodlines? Gimme a break.

I'm an American.

I've got dad's pale skin, his thick dark, naturally curly hair (only mine's so long it's to my waist) and his sapphire blue eyes. Not to mention his love of all things poetic.

From mom I inherited an almost too lush figure for my otherwise slender five foot four inch frame, romance novel lips, and a double-dose of passion.

Needless to say, I didn't fit in around my hometown. Even though I went and did the local college thing, graduating with a 3.7, I never could manage to look the part.

Now I've got a BA in Business, a Masters in Creative Writing, and tits out to here so no one cares about the first two attributes.

Life sucks and then your breasts get in the way.

Snarl. Worse yet, I have no interest in any career where those naturally inflated tits would be an asset. Don't wanta be an actress, can't sing worth shit, and dancing as top-heavy as I am would be a real pain—literally.

So why did I head for Hollywood? you're thinking.

Good question. Hoping for camouflage, I guess. If there's a whole bunch of bouncing boobie Playmate clones in a city—so many the men are tripping all over them no matter where they go—maybe someone with a penis will pay attention to my brains.

Or is that wishful thinking on my part? Small town girl shows her naïve beliefs?

Oh well, can't get any worse than it was at home. At least in Los Angeles I won't have known all the glassy-eyed, drooling middle-aged men since I was a baby. That's always creeped me out.

So let's go back to the bus stop at the corner of Hollywood and Cahuenga.

Being a person without a master plan that involved anything other than escaping Hicksville, USA, there I was, on the streets of lower Hollywood—well, not quite yet, I was still in the bus station—with no place to go and no way to get there.

Duh. You'd think I was a blond, wouldn't you?

No offense meant to you, blond readers. You know, someday someone's gonna explain to me why I can't say the N word, I can't scream anything that rhymes with kite at a person of Jewish descent, it's in bad taste to say someone's fat as a pig even when they are . . . but blond jokes are still acceptable.

That's prejudice too, right?


I guess no matter who you are there's someone in the world who hates what you are—usually for religious or envy reasons.

Me and my tits are another envy example. Guys deal with penis envy, I'm dealing with both sexes wanting my tits. Ugh.

Anyway me, with my tits leading the way, headed across the bus station to ask the man behind the counter where the local police station was.

Nice guy. Took my map and with his pen he drew me a blue ink path to follow.

Not far. About four blocks. One block over the aforementioned celebrity stars and three down a street called Wilcox, into the heart of Hollywood. So off I went.

I'm thinking if I wanted to find a safe place to camp for a night or two or more while I get my bearings—you know, get over the Stranger in a Strange Town thing—the cops are the ones to ask. The last thing they need is to find my cold, dead body in an alley tomorrow morning so they'll likely give me good advice.

That was the theory, anyway.



Thank you for reading, Jada