Amphetamine Logic: Bloodsuckers and Conde Nast-ys
July, three years ago. I came into the Lucky magazine beauty closet strung out after being up all night and ordered my intern—Silence of the Lambs director Jonathan Demme’s then-teenage daughter, named Intern—to take care of me all day.
Intern worked in the beauty closet, a small studio-apartment-sized space on the sixth floor of the Conde Nast building, with a desk that faced out into Times Square.
She adored me. All of my interns always did—not unlike, I imagine, Jordy Chandler adored Michael Jackson.
I was 26 and an associate beauty editor, but I was very weak and lonely. At night, I was running around with sociopaths and addicts. Predators who took me to the projects to spend my money on crack and heroin and snap obscene Polaroids of me with my legs spread open when I fell asleep. Narcissist losers who fancied themselves the second comings of Dash Snow and Egon Schiele and would make Flip phone videos of themselves… flipping through their own sketchbooks.
You’re sick, Amphetamine Logic said. These are your people. You fell off.