Kelly Oxford is a web-celeb/blogger/mommy/troublemaker who has pretty much always wanted to be a writer and never given up on it. That’s hot, no? She’s hot too. Despite her deepest concerns that three babies have ruined her “stomach skin” – “more than 50 percent fat. Skinniest fat ever.” – she has been doing Tracy Anderson on the regs since three weeks before David Copperfield invited her to Vegas to stay for free and see his magic because he liked her tweets. And she looks fly.
Oh, and she has a memoir that was on the New York Times Bestseller list.
It’s called Everything Is Perfect When You’re A Liar, and it’s a compilation of hilarious stories about being a liar (a bad one, though), doing whatchu want, all dat ass, etc.
Oxford recounts a series of That’s Growin’ Up stories about her life, staging Star Wars The Play as a six-year old (with a seriously precocious attitude and the vocabulary of an AP English student) to making an impromptu journey to Los Angeles (she’s from Canada) to make pre-Titanic Leonardo DiCaprio her boyfriend before he gets too famous… at the age of seventeen. In all of the stories she’s selfish, impulsive, and totally cool with it. As am I.
“People are so busy putting on a good face for everyone, it feels good to just accept that some of my thoughts aren’t palatable,” she tells the Huffington Post.
Well, I love her unpalatable thoughts. I think they’re hilarious. For example, in “An Open Letter to the Nurse Who Gave Me an Enema Bottle & Told Me to ‘Do It Myself’ while I Was High on Morphine”, when she describes morphine as having given her “a decent ‘just peed in my pants’ buzz, about the equivalent of a fifteen-minute post-joint mellow,” then goes into full dirty details about putting fluid up her butt in a restroom.
“The bottle squeezed empty in my hand, strange sounds erupted in my body. Clugs and squeals… I fell. As I fell, a spray of water erupted from my body and spattered to the floor. Not much, but certainly enough to make me ashamed. Me, being a girl who did not want to tell you I’d already pooped that morning. I couldn’t stop the ejections. So I gave up, got up, and voided into the toilet. I may have blacked out, as I can’t recall exactly what state the washroom was in after my fall, But I did my best to clean up the mess with the dry, unabsorbent paper towels available to me in the bathroom.”
No, it wasn’t palatable. It was kind of gross. But I’m kind of gross, so now I feel less alone. And that’s the point of literature right, to replace friends and stuff?
PS: this moment made her “an infamous self-administering enema giver,” which would be a pretty cool reputaysh to have among friends and medical professionals.
What she calls “being a terrible person,” I call “being honest and awesome.” Other highlights include:
1) Her failure to find Leonardo DiCaprio/make him her boyfriend in Los Angeles + her success at contacting people on the world wide web the day before she spontaneously flew to LA and arranging to have them drive her all over LA (“the internet was a BABY”) via weird AOL chat rooms.
2) “The Backup Plan” or: You watch too much Oprah, so you get to wondering, what are you going to do if your husband dies and you don’t make it big as a screenwriter? (Spoiler Alert: she made it big as a screenwriter).
3) Vegas. The whole story. Especially the part where she puts her elbow in a pool of semen inside of a strip club while trying to “play it cool” by getting a lap dance.
This shit is 100% non-fiction, which makes Kelly 100% a cray cray disaster. Which makes me 100% encouraged to continue making mischief and making mistakes, all in the name of adventures, because adventures are what stories are made of. Kelly, you are an inspiraysh.