I had moved to London, got a visa, an agency, and ditched commercial season in LA against the advice of my manager to be with a guy I was in love with. At least I’ve learned my lesson about never relying on men for anything.
I signed some papers that said the manufacturer wouldn’t be responsible for my death or deformities in fetuses, yadda yadda yadda, something about suicide and permanent damage to your intestines, blah blah, sure I’ll sign!
I snapped a picture of my daughter Karrie wearing her favorite Wet Seal clothes. Who knew that a short time later she would be flown out to be an actual model for the company? I've never seen her so happy.
I’ve been photographed in 13 countries and four states, tied up everywhere from stunning church ruins to secret underground dungeons below country mansions and have stomped down catwalks in just about every kind of outfit imaginable.
In reality, most models spend their days schlepping to casting after casting, usually being rejected from each one. They live in model apartments with three other girls, and celery is for dinner only because they can’t afford much else. How do I know? I’m a model myself.