Meaghan's Life Story

You make your first big break in the world of dark poetry. During a drama performance at the local poetry cafe, a Hollywood director, looking for new talent, sees you on stage and says to himself, "This chick is golden!" The next thing you know, you're in his newest flick (that ruled the box office) and people are dying to interview you. You give your first interview to a young upstart journalist named Chris Preslar. He goes on to be a polo champion who builds polo resorts all over the world. He later asks you to endorse them, but you refuse and he spends the rest of his life as a hermit in the hills. Beverly Hills, that is.

You become the favorite celebrity for Entertainment Tonight to interview, ousting Julia Roberts. Her career goes sour, and she eventually ends up being your personal assistant. Ten hit movies later, while you are gracing an internet chatroom with your presence, someone threatens you. The threats keep coming. Snail mail, email, IM, phone calls. You love the attention, but it makes you feel in danger, so you decide to tell the stranger how you feel over the air waves. You say "Don't hate me because I'm beautiful" and become famous worldwide for telling off a stalker. But you still feel incomplete. There's something you need, but don't have. Some urge you need to indulge for fear of losing yourself if you do not. No, no, it's unthinkable. You can't. But you must. You must be true to your heart, just like that song said. Garth Brooks did it. Why can't you? So, against the counsel of your agent and manager, you launch your hip-hop/rap music career as Meaghan Brooks's alter ego Megga B. You become a sensation. Lunch boxes have your face pasted ever-so-lovingly on the front. Shampoo bottles boast a statuette of you as a cap. Cereal companies pack little Megga B beanbag toys in their sugary delights for children all over the country to enjoy. You have your own clothing line, salad dressing, and brand of lotions and aromatherapy candles that rival Bath and Body Works. Even when you get old and wrinkly, people flock to your concerts, and your movies are still as popular as they were 40 years ago. But you never stopped making movies or writing poetry or singing hip-hop, even in your old age. On your death bed, your last words were a freestyle rap:

"Here I am now, wrinkled like a prune,
Gettin' ready to take the eternal swoon;
Don't fight over my money, you little rats,
Y'all ain't gettin' any, it's all for my cats.
Ooh, I'm gettin' all swimmy in the head:
Y'all look out, I'm about to be dead.
This is Megga B, Peace out."

And so read your epitaph.

The End