they remembered jayne mansfield


That was the headline the day I died, maybe you saw it? 10.27 am on a scorching Tuesday morning. I mean, god, it so wasn't the way I pictured my death. I expected glamour, well... as much glamour as you can expect from your body ceasing to function. Like... car crashes can be glamorous -- all Jackio O' dark glasses and headscarf billowing behind you as you slam on the brakes and your sporty little coupe collides with a articulated truck. Other times I imagined a heroic death, forfeiting my life to save an innocent homeless person from some big ugly fanged demon of unknown origin. Or maybe with great poignancy, passing away all Jessica Tandy-like after winning my third Oscar, throwing Hollywood into frenzied mourning with celebrities and fans alike lining up to pay tribute to me, the beauty of my youth, my rare talent, the artistry of my performances, my influence over a whole generation of actresses... you get the picture, right?

Well, at least I'll never have to deal with wrinkles or losing my figure.

But, no, I had to 'go' in the lamest possible way. An unsecured lighting rig dropped on me on the way back to the make-up trailer. The trailer where I showed up at 7am day after day to dutifully apply my own make-up ('Sunsets of Our Lives' didn't have the budget to employ a professional make-up artist.) You always had to emphasise the eyes with elaborate shadow and layers and layers of mascara. And god, no one seemed to question the weirdness of having the characters wake up with perfect hair and make-up. Hello? Why did anyone never suffer from bed-head in the air-brushed world of soaps?

Anyway, so there I was, my limbs skewed at this inhuman angle, my face, my perfect face (it was all about the face... and maybe the breasts too if I was being totally honest) all burst and broken, and looking like a fucking panda with all that damn eye make-up. The lighting techs, runners, and ultra untalented extras all came rushing, gaping and crowding, their faces looming and orange above me -- because in LA everyone has a George Hamilton perma-tan. And I swear I saw this tiny smirk on Saphron Steele's face. She was like my arch rival on the show for the love of Casey Ventura, the resident hunk. She was a bitch in real life too, and I couldn't help but wonder if she hadn't plotted my untimely demise just so she could get the Winnebago to herself...

So that two-faced bitch was the last thing I saw before Doyle, Principal Flutie and Miss Calendar came and oh! was that... Larry Blaisedale? Wow, he looked great in white. Slimmer. And I didn't have time to think about why he was holding Doyle's hand and smiling. This place is obviously an equal opportunities afterlife. I mean, is every man I've ever known a closet case? Because I was seriously beginning to wonder about Wesley and Angel....

I guess you're wondering why I'm telling you all this. Well, it's not like we get to just sit back and relax here, y'know. It may be all paradisey but you have to earn your wings. So my assignment is to look out for this girl that reminds me a lot of you. Yeah, she's similarly clueless about fashion and style. But she has potential which I'm sworn to secrecy about. According to The Powers That Are Annoyingly Cryptic, she has some kind of important destiny, yadda, yadda, yadda. Whatever.

What I'm trying to say, and I know I've never been any good at this sincerity stuff, is that I never really blamed you for Xander. He loved you more than he loved me. End of story. What bugged was... I think I loved you a little too and you never acknowledged me. All I was to you was an inconvenience, a dealer of bitchy one liners, Queen C of shallowness.

So, this is closure. I'm so over you, Buffy Summers. Absolutely. Right.


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