[h2]C H R I S S Y   L I[/h2]
[hr]
"No, look, Varun, what I am [i]trying[/i] to say is that Cody King's ex-girlfriend just got hospitalized for taking too much of Happiness-yes, that's the ecstasy rip-off-and if you could you please just [i]get Andrew on the phone?![/i]"

Chrissy would never, for the fucking life of her, understand why Andrew insisted that they keep all work-related conversations to their office's ancient telephone line. Like, for [i]one[/i], handhelds with actual [i]wires[/i] were [i]so[/i] 2000s, and secondly, hello???? Who in their right mind didn't like using iMessage?????

But in the end, it was Andrew who paid her, so she had to play by his rules. Though that didn't mean that she couldn't [i]complain[/i] about said rules, of course. Loudly.

Andrew came to the phone. "Chrissy?" he said, his voice tinged with surprise. "What's up?"

Chrissy rolled her eyes. Trust Varun, that useless sack of bricks, to be so incapable of conveying a message that she had to repeat herself twelve times before he would even register that she was trying to talk to [i]Andrew[/i], not him. Chrissy blamed it on the fact that he had been in IT before he somehow found his way to a tabloid, writing celeb obituaries-Chrissy's uncle was in IT, and, well...an expert public speaker he was not.

Chrissy twirled a strand of hair around her finger. "Yeah. Hi. Cody King's ex-girlfriend was hospitalized for taking too much of that Happiness stuff. I'm checking it out."

Chrissy could practically hear the wheels turning in Andrew's head. "Which ex-girlfriend? The goth indie singer or the Instamodel? Or was it that Disney star?"

"The Instamodel. You know, Kaia Gutierrez." Chrissy snorted. "Neither of them have very good tastes. Everyone knows that Kaia's the fakest girl around. And don't even get me [i]started[/i] on Cody. What was that Ebola joke he made the other day? Jeez."

Andrew let out a huff of laughter. "Yeah, well, let me know what you find," he replied. 

"Sure thing. How's my fill-in doing?" Since Chrissy wrote a daily gossip column, her boss had decided to hire a temporary fill-in for the months she would be in Florida. Chrissy had only met the guy twice before she left; he was aight. A bit loud, but aight.

"Joe? Oh, he's alright. September tells me that he's still upset that you wouldn't give him your list of informants, you know."

Chrissy laughed. "Hey, you know how it works, boss. I am sworn to secrecy."

Andrew muttered something under his breath. "Yeah, right. You got anything else for me?"

Chrissy fiddled with one of her sparkly gel pens. "Yeah. Tell September I'll text her about some Kaia pics later. You remember when we found her high school yearbook photos, right?"

Andrew chuckled. "Yes. You're going to make her cry."

A cheeky grin spread across Chrissy's face. "That's the plan, Andrew. Talk to you later." Chrissy hung up, still grinning. The tabloid she worked for had exposed Kaia as [i]the[/i] single fakest Instamodel in existence after Chrissy helped one of the photographers, September, get her hands on yearbook photos...where Kaia's figure looked noticeably, ah, [i]different[/i]. To say the least. One thing was for sure: her nose = fake. Her boobs = fake. Her lips = fake. Anyone who believed Kaia when she said they were "natural" = fucking morons.

Of course, Chrissy wasn't usually this much of a hater-a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do-it was just the [i]hypocrisy[/i] of Kaia's "OMGZZZZ #natural #selfie #nofilter" Instagram captions that made for her 1) unreasonably angry, and 2) salivate like a dog going after a bone. Those pics were tabloid [i]gold[/i]. She'd ripped the Instamodel a new one a few months ago...and Chrissy wasn't about to let Hollywood forget about [i]that[/i] scandal. Neither was Andrew, apparently.

Well. One thing was for sure: Chrissy would not be on Kaia's Christmas list any time soon.

Chrissy yawned, padding over to the kitchen and starting a pot of coffee. Her great-aunt was glaring at a carton of eggs. Chrissy sidled up behind her, plucking the carton of eggs out of her hand.

Aunt Jess looked up. "Chrissy? What are you doing?"

Chrissy pressed her lips into a thin line. "I do the cooking," she said, firmly. "You burned the lasagna [i]again[/i] last night. You're staying away from the stove," she continued, grabbing what she would need to make scrambled eggs.

Aunt Jess, who was half the size of an already fairly small Chrissy, mumbled something undoubtedly cranky and ornery old lady-ish in response, though she obliged. [i]Thank the Lord and Buddha and our savior Jesus Christ,[/i] Chrissy thought to herself. [i]Normally she's a[/i] lot[i] more difficult.[/i] 

Aunt Jess was half-deaf, half-blind, and could not be trusted anywhere near 1) a stove (or an oven, or a microwave) or 2) a TV remote. [i]How[/i] many noise complaints had they already gotten because Aunt Jess was incapable of keeping the TV volume at a normal level???? It had to be at least ten now, right?

Chrissy fixed them up some breakfast, did some chores around Aunt Jess's cramped apartment, then started getting ready for the rest of the day. She didn't have much going on-just a quick visit to the hospital to try to get some info on Kaia, maybe a pit stop at the mall (she had a Sephora coupon, somewhere), then coming home and ordering takeout with Aunt Jess before catching up on what was going down in L.A. 

By the time Chrissy finally decided on an outfit for the day (magenta spaghetti strap tank top bedazzled with rhinestones, cute pleated black skirt, fishnets, combat boots with five inch heels as a 'fuck you' to all the haters), did her make-up (sparkly pink eye-shadow, lip gloss, mascara, etc), and made sure that Aunt Jess was settled in with five hours of Jeopardy on replay, it was time to go. She headed out the door and hopped into her rental car, sticking the keys into the ignition and pulling out of the condominium's parking lot.

The traffic was not exactly [i]pleasant[/i], but it was nothing compared to L.A rush hour. Chrissy found a parking spot, quickly checked that her hair, which was twisted into two twin French braids, hadn't gotten too terribly messed up on the ride over, before getting out of the car and making her way to the hospital's lobby.

The hospital seemed like a busy place. Chrissy waited in line for her turn at the reception desk, impatiently checking the time. [i]Just after 12 PM. Okay, not bad. I told them, what-12:15?[/i]

When it was her turn, Chrissy gave the dude behind the desk the most pleasant smile that she could muster. "I'm Christina Li," she told him, "with the [i]L.A. Informer[/i]. I have an [i]appointment[/i] with one of the nurses."

Chrissy tapped her hot pink nails against the surface of the desk as the receptionist pulled up the info. "Got it. You're all set," he said, printing out a name tag for her. "Go to this room, here," he continued, indicating the sequence of letters and numbers underneath her name. "Use the elevator down the hall, and get off at the second floor. It should be to your right once you get off."

"Thanks." Chrissy peeled off the backing and stuck the name tag to her shirt, striding away and towards the elevator the receptionist mentioned.

Once she found the room, Chrissy pushed the door open and took a look around. It seemed like a pretty standard conference room or whatever, with a long, rectangular table in the middle and spinny office chairs around it. There was a coffee machine in the back. Chrissy plopped into the nearest chair and spun around a few times before checking her phone. Her friend September had texted her the photos-perfect. 

[i]Oooh, I don't think I've seen that before-and-after before,[/i] Chrissy mused to herself as she dragged her fingers apart, zooming in on one of the shots. She let out a low whistle; apparently, Kaia's latest nose job had been rather...unfortunate. [i]Holy shit. Wow. What is her nose doing, melting into her face? Jeez. That girl really needs to find a better doctor-preferably one with, like,[/i] ethics[i]-or her next gig is going to be an episode of "Botched". Bye-bye, Vogue covers. Yikes.[/i]

Maybe that's why Kaia had OD'ed; one of the twenty plastic surgeons she had on speed dial fucked up her face. Hell, in her shoes, Chrissy probably would have done the same thing.