Courtney Love’s Twitter Updates In Easy-To-Read Magazine Interview Style – Issue Five

Hello, readers! I am currently sitting on the floor at Kuala Lumpur’s slightly less glamorous LCC terminal waiting to board my flight to London, and it smells a bit like wee, and I just fell asleep in a food court for four hours, so the only thing making me cheery in the heart is the fact that the place has Wi-Fi so I get to read the gorgeous Lorelei’s interpretation of Courtney Love’s recent Twitter updates! That I also get to share this spectacular piece of writing with you is a bonus.

Take it away, Lorelei!

Courtney Love crawls into the hotel room, her hair disheveled and her clothes a mess. ‘I have kissed a lot of rockstars in my time but seriously never so many as the last 24 hours!’ she gasps. She drags herself up onto the couch and clears her throat. ‘So—can someone tell me how 39% of $900 million gets “lost”?’ she begins, lighting a cigarette and tapping her Louboutin-clad foot impatiently as a heavy silence descends upon the room. ‘And why Kurt Cobain’s daughter hasn’t got a TUTOR? Or a SCHOOL?’ She pauses dramatically, before adding third-worldly: ‘Or FOOD?’ She pauses once more as she allows the eerie silence to settle in around her. ‘And how is it that I’m about to go onstage with Slash, and sing the fuck out of “Surrender”, “20th Century Boy”, “He’s a Whore” and “Celebrity Skin”?’ But even this query, relating as it does to Ms Love’s immediate schedule, seems too difficult for the pleiad of assistants surrounding her to answer, and all but one of them run squealing from the room.

Love starts howling like a wild animal with a prickle in its paw. ‘GWAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRR!’ she bellows. ‘I will shank somebody, I will fucking shank somebody! And to top it off I have stage nerves and need a vocal warm-up!’

She stops screaming and her intense gaze suddenly rests on the feet of her remaining assistant, who is also wearing a pair of Louboutin stilettos. Falling to her knees, Love starts pawing at the shoes, which are ruby red and decorated with extravagant black trimming. Taking the assistant’s foot tenderly in both her hands, she purrs: ‘I’d PRACTICALLY have drunken sex with someone I only vaguely liked in a sexy way for THOSE!’ The assistant shivers and kicks them off hurriedly, watching from a safe distance as Love pounces after them.

Slipping her own feet into the shoes, Love hobbles over to the window and screams out mysteriously: ‘Get a dammed guitar!’ She clarifies this statement immediately with an impromptu rhyming couplet: ‘So then fashion is a secondary passion!’ She flashes a brilliant, bullying smile at her assistant, and continues to race along with this idea like a runaway train. ‘And life gets way more fun! And anyone YOU like likes YOU back. FAST!’ The one remaining assistant erupts into adoring, tyrannised applause, and the freshly-shod Mrs Cobain gleefully takes a bow.

Suddenly, her phone rings. She gallops over to her handbag and empties it frantically. Sweeping aside a copy of Malcolm Gladwell’s New York Times Bestselling book, Outliers, as well as four cigarette packets and a diminutive, bearded lawyer who has been missing from his family for days, Love grabs her phone.

‘Billy!’ she screams down the line to her old friend Billy Corgan of the band Smashing Pumpkins. ‘Get the fuck out while you can! You’re being collatorised!’ she squeals inventingly. ‘And you’re too arrogant about your finances and your liquidity to understand!’ Hanging up on him, and on an obvious roll, Love immediately starts dialing another number.

‘Chris Rock—JESUS! I’m so, so, so, sorry!’ she emotes soulfully into what is apparently Chris Rock’s message bank. ‘My day got lost with “electronic synergism” in the house!’ She readjusts the magnolia flower behind her ear, and hums the first few lines of Lady Sings the Blues. ‘Forgive me, cos I miss you, daddy-o!’ Hanging up, she struts swarthily over to the couch.

Picking up Outliers from where it was earlier strewn on the carpet, Love tut-tuts like the concerned parent she is anxious to let the world know she is. ‘I’m horrified after the traumatic fifth chapter of Gladwell’s Outliers,’ she explains. ‘I’ve ALWAYS been a loving mom. I’ve ALWAYS kicked mega ass to any teachers.’ Noone in the room, including her daughter’s three tutors, disputes this, and she turns unopposed to her aforementioned teenage daughter, Frances Bean Cobain, who is quietly being accepted into Mensa over Skype whilst punching Alison Lohan with her spare hand.

‘I love and miss you!’ Love yells to her, before trotting maternally over and affectionately lifting the headphones from her daughter’s ears. ‘In Outliers,’ she explains, ‘lower-class parents aren’t as involved with their kids, and subsequently the kids have no FIGHT in them.’ She uncaps a tube of Deep Heat and squeezes it sagely. ‘I have your back like noone ever will,’ she murmurs, whilst rubbing Frances’ calves contradictingly with the soothing, warm gel. ‘You’re all I think about.’ She turns to her one remaining assistant, who is shivering barefoot in the corner. ‘Read the Outliers chapter,’ she barks. ‘“The Trouble with Geniuses.”’

Love’s voice turns suddenly menacing as she wraps her long arms around her daughter protectively. ‘How do I say this publicly?’ she asks, publicly. ‘They’re planning on hurting someone we love—you love—the most. You GOTTA GET SOME FIGHT IN YOU!’ And, moving aside to give Frances enough room to continue practising her left hook on the younger Lohan, Love looks on proudly.

Satisfied that her work is done, she breezily bids us all farewell. ‘Goodnight all!’ she exclaims valedictorily. ‘Lotsa love! And don’t rip each other off or I’ll have to come repair your credit!’ The remaining assistant and I look confusedly at each other as Love giggles girlishly and stuffs Outliers, the cigarette, and the bearded lawyer back into her handbag. Shooting a glance at Lindsay Lohan’s bruised sister, she generously declares: ‘I love everyone in humanity!’ She starts sidling out of the room, but pauses thoughtfully in the doorway. ‘And some animals too!’ And just like that, with a click of her red heels, Courtney Love is gone.