you give me miles and miles of mountains and i'll ask for the sea.

like you might make a dollar, i'm inside your mouth now behind your tonsils, peaking over your molars.

scarf eller turban - nä, det här med turban har jag aldrig förstått.
hög klack eller ballerina - men jag får erkänna att mina fötter bara tillåter högklackat vid speciella tillfällen.
h&m eller zara - h&m! of course! jag har aldrig i mitt liv handlat på zara.
kroppsnära eller a-linjeformat - a-linjeformat all the way.
stuprör eller vida jeans - skinny. i en mörk tvätt, mörk som i svart.
pyton eller leopard - inget av följande. blommor.
modeblogg eller modemagasin - magazin. det är ju känslan med att bläddra i en!
baddräkt eller bikini - ja, jag måste inhandla en fin baddräckt. känns lite nytt & fräsht.
desperate housewives eller sex and the city - of course liksom!
svart eller vitt - jag tror att 90% av min garderob är väldigt, väldigt svart.
uppsatt eller utsläppt - utsläppt ska jag ha så fort jag har fått klippa mig!
guldmetallic eller silvermetallic - jag får erkänna att jag börjar falla för silver.
90-tal eller 80-tal - ehhh. hemkst!
lack eller läder - läder, som i snygg skinjacka.
modette eller elle - jag har icke läst modette. men svenska elle är en av mina favoritmagazin.
leggings eller barbent - leggins, always. barbent känns så, så, så ... barbent.

lista från rubia.

dust from your eyes, angels are falling, from distant fears, your cold hearts beating.

jag bara gråter och gråter för att det är så fint. de 4 senaste veckorna, då jag har tittat på so you think you can dance har jag suttit och tjutit som ett litet barn. alla contemporary nummer får mig att bli alldeles ledsen, för att de är så fina. och för att folk är så duktiga. och jag är här, och de senaste 7 månaderna har jag förlorat allt jag har kämpat för de senaste 3 åren. jag blir så ledsen av att tänka på det. på att jag saknar att få dansa så himla mycket. och samtidigt är jag rädd för att jag aldrig kommer att börja dansa igen. liksom på riktigt. för att efter det här uppehållet är det så läskigt. jag har ungefär inget kvar. var ska man börja? från början igen? jag blir så ledsen. så istället tittar jag på fina nummer, och gråter för att de begåvade människorna får mig att börja gråta för att jag egentligen är så ledsen.



stacy

all the non-believers they get to eat dirt and the believers get to spit on their graves.

denna tee är nu på väg hem till mig!

puss stacy

they're tryin' to make me go to rehab but i said no, no, no - cause i'll go to california instead.

i love you marc.

+ i love my ipod. så därför klickade jag just hem denna. hoppas på den funkar fint. passar bra nu när det är sommar och vi spenderar dagarna med att åka bil hela tiden. och medan de radiosönderspelade sångerna skär sönder våra öron, så istället tunar man in sin ipod och så är man redo för vad som helst. och extra fint kommer det att bli när sammy och jag bilar i californien i augusti. oh man, oh man vad jag längtar. road 66 och billiga hostels. jaaa! men så kan man ju alltid lyxa till det lite genom att t.ex. ha på sig skapelserna ovan. ja, om man har 205 £ över så kan man det. och det jar ju jag varje dag. ja men visst. fint.

puss stacy.

once you said that it doesn't matter anymore. and i asked; how come?

förra fredagen, åtminstonde tror jag att det var förra fredagen, då var vi ute.
grethe, sammy, claire, sanna & stacy. jag hittade bilder från den kvällen i ett mail jag fick.
alltid en trevlig egokick att fastna på okända folks kameror. yesbox.
somebody must really love us.

puss stacy.

so pick me, choose me, love me.

följande items ligger under min bevakning på ebay. mm.
så nu hoppas jag också på att jag kan bjuda hem då. håll tummarna för mig.
äskar english cab tishan. jag var kär i den förut. sedan såg jag den på denna lady, och hon bar upp den så bra, så jag blev tvungen att leta reda på en egen. i can really see it happen. så comeon ebay, pick me, choose me, love me.

puss stacy.

chicken noodle soup.

medan bloggosfären överhypar miumius batikväskor. så har jag fått en besatthet efter chloé bay.
jag skulle ge ungefär vad som helst för den just nu. ta min ipod, mitt marc jacons päron, min ryska sjal, ta alla mina smycken, min laptop, nej föresten, kanske inte min laptop. men ni förstår poängen. ta vad som helst - jag vill bara ha väskan!

puss stacy

02.32

jag dör. jag vill dansa. nu nu nu!
på klippet, mr timberlakes koreograf. damn it. my god.

godnatt. puss stacy.

fevrale dostat chernil i plakat, pisat o fevrale navsnryd, poka grohochushaya slyakot, vesnoyu charnoyu gorit fevrale.

ibland förstår jag verkligen inte hur människor tänker. tänker med deras små hjärnor på högvarv, utan att komma någonstans. eller kanske, så tänker de inte alls. ja, så är det nog. de tänker inte alls. och jag bara stör mig något så otroligt. man kan inte både äta kakan och ha den kvar. och man kan inte spendera livet med att försöka få allt och alla att gilla en, för att det kommer inte att hända. man kan inte vara alla till lags. och man kan inte bete sig på ett visst sätt med folk, och ge de falska signaler, för att man inte vill bli ovän, eller få de att gilla en mindre. liksom, hur kan man ens komma till den punkten i livet då man faktikst försöker klura ut hur man kan få allt allt allt, utan onödig svartsjuka? behöver jag ens nämna att man kan inte få allt? och de flesta av oss liksom lär sig att accepterar det. men vissa, de försöker och försöker. och bara sjunker lägre och lägre i våra ögon, mina ögon.

ja ibland undrar jag.
förundras jag.
av hur fel man kan ha om människor.
men det är ju inte min sak att säga. egentligen.

och här är en låt dagen till ära.

puss stacy.

so break me to small parts let go in small doses.

idag låg denna skapelse äntligen utanför min dörr, när jag för sjuttioelfte gången kikade utanför dörren. då var klockan kring 15.03. och jag blev glad glad glad. så jag sprang ner, slet upp paketet och laddade batteriet. sedan läste jag manualen. jag älskar att läsa manualer på nya saker man köpt. även om de är skriva för dummies. jag älskar det ändå.

annars har min dag varit dödligt tråkigt. det är så meningslöst att ha semester när alla andra jobbar häcken av sig, mer än vanligt. verkligen mer än vanligt. jag har ungefär tittat på tv hela dagen, och sedan tittade jag på tv ännu mer, när jag insåg att ingen skulle kunna plocka upp mig eller göra sällskap heller efter att de hade slutat jobba. sedan var jag så fruktansvärt uttråkad att jag tog kort på min vägg. då kände jag mig ganska sorlig.

nu ska jag se om jag kanske kan somna.

puss stacy.

this is how it works; you laugh until you cry you cry until you laugh and everyone must breathe until their dying breath.

i fredags då, så var vi ett gäng som var ute. jag, sanna, grethe, sammy & claire. först var vi på lotus, som just denna fredag inte kunde bli tråkigare. jag typ dog av att vara där. alla bara stod och glodde, ingen dansade, fucking stiff. så sanna och jag gick. vi bestämmde oss för att testa trash. vi kände för indiedans. och visst höll clubblokalen måttet efter namnet. trash outside, trash inside. men fan, förutom att stället såg ut som crap så var det jäkligt röj. mitt nya favoritställe. nästa gång ska jag dock komma mer på humör. indiedance all the way it is. sanna som pratar med allt som rör sig träffade schysst folk. för det fick jag en öl. och sedan fick vi trevligt sällskap resten av kvällen. ja, sanna är bra hon. föresten, så var säkert 40% av all på trash gay. jag ska också bli bög. annars går jag ju misste om de finaste indiekidsen. så here, feel free and enjoy som pics.



officiellt dricka-sig-fulla-på-tåget-in-till-city kort. yesbox.

sanna är så snygg så ibland undrar jag om jag kanske inte borde ta och bli lesbisk.

'cause i don't know why.

i just love my eyes. eyelashes is the very shit.

nu ska jag sova med vetskapen om att imorgon har jag kraftig sovmorgon. så länge jag vill. jajaja. föresten, så tror jag att min kamera kommer imorgon också. lycka.

puss stacy.

family gone gone gone, minivacation on on on.

idag, kl 10.30 begav sig min hostmum och kidsen till massachussettes. och de blir borta tills på fredag. halellujah!
så jag och grethe har solat och slappat, och jag har jättebränt min rygg.
men nu ska jag äta middag i mitt tysta hus. jättetysta. tyst tyst tyst. jag trivs, trivs, trivs.

puss stacy.

this is how it works; you're young until you're not you love until you don't you try until you can't.

fan vad hemskt kul för denna söta, unga lady.
nejdå liksom, jag är inte alls dödligt avundsjuk eller så.

we do what we need to be free.

på ett väldigt lyckosamt bananskal, hade jag turen att åka på ett extra babysitting jobb idag.
söndag 9.30 am - 10 pm. 12, 5 timmar - 160 dollar!
jag känner mig typ rikast i världen. haha.
eftersom jag idag, för en dags arbete drog in 160 $.
medan vanligtvist får jag nöja mig med 140 $ för 45 timmars fucking slit i en vecka.
i'm feelin lucky baby. i'm feeling good.
så nu har jag 200 bax i min spargris, istälet för 50.
oh yeah yeah, i'm feeling lucky.

liksom, jag förtjänar verkligen det här.
det verkar som att alla har ett extraknäck lite då och då. förutom jag.
men nu vänder turen.
eftersom jag fick tillfrågan om intresse inför kommande tillfällen, och även förfrågan om lite lite extraknäck från huset mittemot mitt, som var min turlänk till guldjobbet idag. bara nån timme då och då. men fan, riktiga babysitters tar 10 - 15 $ timmen. och jag är då inet au pair på heltid. min familj kan betala mig slavlön. men ingen jäkla annan. då ska jag ha cash. så ja, på väg mot ljusare tider är jag allt.

allting är fint. denna vecka jobbar jag måndag, och kanske någon timme tisdag morgon, sedan är jag ledig till fredag eftermiddag. gud, vad har jag gjort för att förtjäna detta? hur som helst tack.

dock, fick jag nyss ett mail. att min camera order kan inte processed för att de behöver en faxad kopia av mitt VISA, fram och baksida. vad är det för jäkla dumheter? det har jag aldrig varit med om. ska fan ringa dit, det verkar ju jäkligt skumt. jajaja. jag som hade hoppats på att min kamera skulle ligga utanför dörren imorgon. well, maybe tuesday?

godnatt.
puss puss lucky stacypacy.

i know, just hate me.

jag är så nå nörd.
nyss så reggade jag här.
liksom online, stragedispel. omg.
jag tycker att alla som spelar något sådant är jättenördar. så well well.
jag fattar ingenting. och kommer ändå antagligen att dö snart. och aldrig ens orka spela.
men, så här kl 01.15 när jag inte kan sova, eftersom jag råkade somna 3 timmar förut, så verkar det som en bra idé.

puss stacy.

i took your picture with one particluar reason and its to capture your character.

jag har världens bästa, mest underbara och snällaste mamma!
för att tack vore henne har jag just kunnat klicka hem denna. min nya baby.

jag ska vårda den ömt, eftersom jag nu vet hur tomt det är en kamerababy försvinner.
bestämmer sig för att vara trasig.

tack tack tack tack tack tack tack min söta mamma! du är bäst!
och jag är bortskämd, jag vet. men det är bara för att du tycker om mig så mycket.
men som sagt, när jag blir vuxen och rik ska jag köpa fina, dyra saker till dig också.

nu är jag så lycklig, att jag inom några dagar kommer att ha en helt fungerande kamera igen. med betoning på; helt fungerande. inte halvt, inte lite, utan helt. utan vattenskadefläcken mitt på skärmen. och med en ickerostig elektronik. utan en ny och fin. ja ja ja! just därför är jag så lycklig, så passa lycklig att jag nästan glömmer bort att vara ledsen för att hultsfred börjar idag. och för att jag inte kan vara där. full som en kastrull, sovandes under en gran någonstans. inte bada på den fina badplatsen med små vattenfall. och inte heller får jag dansa till uffie. livet är hårt. men hej, jag har just köpt en ny kamera! hej hej!

ni som är på hultsfred, rocka lite mig också! och drick lite öl. ja, åt mig.

puss stacy.

there was a love affair in this building the kind of love affair, which every respectable building must keep as a legend.

som sagt, nämn någon som inte är förälskad i yvan's facehunting. i know i am. and you, and you and you and you.

puss stacy.

and i die, when you mention his name and i lie.

jag dör än idag, eftersom jag fortfarande inte har någon fungerande kamera.
liksom, jag är i usa, new york, jag måste ha en fungerande kamera!
hur ska jag annars kunna uppdatera mig blogg med bilder? va va va?
och typ ta roliga kort när jag clubbar i nyc. det är ju minnen för livet.
kan ingen råna en bank åt mig? .... eller så godtas även sponsring. mm, tack.

puss stacy.

goodbye my lover, goodbye my friend you have been the one, you have the one for me.

i am heartbroken, dying. min kamera är jättetrasig. jättetrasig som i; the end trasig.
jag dör. jag dör av vetskapen om att jag inte längre äger en kamera. dör dör dör.

jag vet inte varför min kamera plötsligt bestämde sig för att vara trasig. men när jag sätter igång den så visar inte displayen längre vad objektivet fångar. utan det vore som att det är en vit bild över hela displayen, med två stora svarta fläckar mitt på. inget mer. bara vitt vitt vitt, och lite svart. and i don't know why. senast i torsdags så fungerade den alldeles utmärkt. och idag så var den plötsligt jättetrasig. jag ska nog gråta en skvätt. hjälp. nu ska jag sörja.

mitt allra största problem just nu är nog dock inte att kameran är trasig,
utan problemet ligger nog i hur jag ska kunna ha råd att ersätta den ?!
jag har 50 dollar sparade. that's it. no kidding. 50 dollar.





så mamma, snälla sponsra mig till en ny kamera!
annars dör jag nog, och det vore ju synd.

bästapris på denna kamera ligger just nu på 254 USD = 1811 svenska kr.
hemma i sverige får man dock för samma kamera som billigast betala 2614 svenska kr.

så snälla, snälla, snälla mamma!
snälla snälla.

i know, a girl laying down she's sleeping weeks at a time and when she wakes up she watches tv, counting cracks in the ceiling.

visst är väl detta kelly osbourne herself?
well, i så fall missade jag förmodligen min enda chans att se henne, förra vecka, när jag inte gick till misshapes.
attans liksom. kunde jag kanske ha hittat en bättre tid att stanna hemma och spara pengar på? men nej.
livet är hårt.

puss stacy.

olycklig, otursdrabbad au pair söker resesällskap!

idag fick jag mycket goda nyheter;

semester från 19 augusti till 3 september.

vilket gör mig helt ofattbart lycklig. eftersom det innebär att min hostmum ger mig en veckas mer extra betald semester än vad jag egentligen har rätt till här, i au pair programmet. egentligen har man bara rätt till 2 veckors batald semester under hela året. visst kan man också få mer, om man har haft turen att komma i en bra familj, jag trode bara inte att jag hade sådan tur. plus att jag också får 4 dagar ledigt nästa vecka. för att de ska resa iväg. alltså am i happy or am i happy? dock så finns det ett litet problem;

jag har ingen att ta semester med!

utan jag har istället oturen helt på min sida. och det visar sig att varenda liten kotte jag känner (läs; någon som jag känner tillräkligt bra och i vars sällskap jag trivs tillräkligt för att kunna tänka mig att semestra ihop med) har semester exakt veckan, eller veckorna innan mig. verkligen exakt exakt. så jäkla otippat liksom. kan man ha större otur?

min plan är california kusten, långt stopp i LA eller kanske miami. men icke va.
jag har till och med hittat hyfsat billiga flyg till LA!
exakt i denn sekund finns det roundtrip till LA för 340 dollar !!! ink. taxes and everything !!! helt ok !!!
men jag känner att denna billiga chans kommer att bli mindre billig ju längre jag väntar.
så nu till poängen med detta inlägg;

resekompis söks!

det kan vara ett plus i kanten om vi kanske känner varandra från innan.
men så länge du inte är;

1. junkie,
2. killer eller
3. äcklig pedofil

så är jag öppen för förslag.

så vill nån åka till California/LA mellan 20 augusti och 3 september?

pussstacypacy

pass this on.

urban, jag älskar dig. you know i do.
synd att du är lite för dyr för min nästintill ständigt tomma au pair plånbok bara.
men du ska veta att jag drömmer om dig på nätterna. yes, i do.

puss stacy.

who is cory kennedy? like, for real.

ps. jag tar tillbaka det jag sa om facebook. att det verkar mobbat. facebook är helt fantastiskt. i en av cory kennedy grupperna finns följande att läsa; the raise of cory kennedy. så om ni har en timme över, eller så, och om cory är er idol, för hon är min, så läs läs läs. it goes like this;

In the summer of 2005, when she was 15 but not yet famous, Cory Kennedy went to a Blood Brothers concert at the El Rey Theatre. She remembers what she was wearing—black leg warmers, beat-up black Converse sneakers and a canary-yellow Lacoste mini-dress that she'd had to beg her mother to buy her. It was "back in the day," at the end of ninth grade, when she was still going by her full name, Cory Kennedy-Levin. She was going to a lot of concerts then, and at this one, a guy named the Cobra Snake saw her and took her picture for his hipster-party photo website.

In the non-Internet world, the guy's real name is Mark Hunter, and the scary nickname was mostly wishful thinking. Bright, friendly and energetic, Hunter was also young. A year or two's difference, and Cory might have recognized him as the 2003 Associated Student Body vice president at Santa Monica High School. After graduation, he had discovered a knack for taking pictures of L.A. nightlife, and he had been posting them for free on thecobrasnake.com, which was becoming a fairly popular website. Hunter, then 20, especially liked the El Rey because all sorts of interesting people went there, from movie stars to posses of L.A. teenagers like the pretty girl in yellow he saw that night out on the town.

That was how it started. That was the first flicker of what would become the—What? Phenomenon? Moment? Cautionary tale? Success story? Footnote?—of Cory Kennedy.

If it's hard to characterize, it may be because hers is a dispatch from uncharted cultural waters. Never before have media, technology and celebrity collided with adolescence at such warp speed. Never before has it been so easy for, say, a middle-class kid with a curfew and no driver's license to rise to international fame almost without her parents' knowledge.

Put it this way: By the time Cory Kennedy's mother realized that her child had become, in the words of Gawker.com, an "Internet It Girl," the Web was riddled with photos of Cory posing, eating, dancing, shopping, romping at the beach, looking pensive and French-kissing one of the (adult) members of the rock band the Kings of Leon. She had European fan sites. She had thousands of people signing on to her MySpace pages. She had fashion bloggers dissecting her wardrobe ("a cross between the Little Match Girl and the quintessence of heroin chic," one wag called her taste in fashion). She had people watchers from the Netherlands to Japan speculating about her life story. (Was she a junkie? A refugee from Hyannis Port?) She had designers begging her to wear their clothes and deejays offering her money to show up at their nightclubs. She had invitations to party with Paris Hilton and Lindsay Lohan.

She was living, in short, a teenager's dream and a parent's version of "Fear Factor." And the obvious questions—at least for her mother—were, "What happened? And how?"

"I still have no idea," half-jokes Jinx Kennedy, a rangy 56-year-old who, with husband Barry Levin, 63, runs a for-profit high school degree program. We're in her Santa Monica living room, a cozy space filled with overstuffed sofas and framed family photos. In the kitchen, a white board above the microwave reminds the Kennedy-Levin children to "do chores" and "make bed" and "return your breakfast tray to the kitchen." Sports schedules hang on the refrigerator next to the straight-A report card of Cory's youngest sister. The It Girl, her mother says, is in her room, enjoying her last hours of freedom before heading off to her new school.

"I didn't connect the dots," she says, sighing. "But I'm real connected now."

It's hard to overstate the speed with which the Internet can now make someone a cultural icon. A YouTube video, a flub on "American Idol," a stupid pet trick—virtually anything can become a fast track to celebrity. What that means is still working itself out; all that's clear is that it's become unbelievably easy to get and leverage attention. A nobody can become a somebody at a moment's notice, just because everybody is always watching everything.

Cory Kennedy became famous after the people who watched Hunter started watching her too. It was the late autumn of her sophomore year at Santa Monica High School. They had exchanged numbers that night at the El Rey. Hunter needed office help, and soon Cory and her best friend, Maggy Rogow—a senior at a private school that made "internships" a prerequisite for graduation—were doing after-school clerical work for Hunter two days a week.

Almost immediately, they wanted to tag along to the parties. Hunter had long taken female friends with him, but the friends were usually his age. True, there were times when Hunter himself was the most lifelike thing on the guest list. ("He makes it look like the best party in the whole wide world when it could be the worst one," Cory says, laughing.) But the events he shot were populated by hipsters in their 20s and 30s; sex, drugs and alcohol were like occupational hazards. When he finally succumbed to the interns' pleas, he was careful to get parental permission. (Jinx Kennedy confirms that his conscientiousness won her over.)

"It was kind of weird bringing underage people to the events," says Hunter, who gave them cameras and posted their work alongside his photos. "But they were part of the team."

Rogow, who is now a freshman at Hampshire College in Amherst, Mass., says the experience was intensely exciting. "We were the youngest people there, and we thought everyone was really cool," she remembers. Celebrities would show up—Adam Brody of "The OC," the female rock group the Like, those Kings of Leon—but the scene typically "came off a lot more wild than it was."

For Cory, however, the experience was life-altering. From the moment Hunter posted his first pictures of her, with her doe eyes and her brown hair asunder, it was clear that her childlike face, surrounded by all that L.A.-noir, had its own gravitational pull. Some of it may have been his presentation: One set of photos, posted in December 2005 under the cryptic title "JFK CORY KENNEDY," encouraged speculation that she came from the political family. The allure, too, might have been thecobrasnake.com, which was getting more than 10,000 unique visitors a day, a following of kids, scenesters, professional trend-spotters and celebrity gawkers that, in the next year, would more than double.

But mostly the reaction was simply to 15-year-old Cory as seen through the love-struck eyes of a 20-year-old who couldn't stop looking at her. "She was totally real," Hunter says, "and totally innocent."

Of course, no muse is ever quite that simple. Cory, for example, has three sisters: 15-year-old Cody, 13-year-old Chandler, and Chris, who is her twin. Jinx Kennedy says her oldest girls' personalities were clear from the beginning: Chris "was just a typical, goofy, nice—really nice—kid," and Cory was the one with the plan and the determination. Chris loved art and Cory loved fashion. If both were also a little unconventional, it made sense: Before their parents' diploma business (which promises "diplomas in one week or less" on its website), Jinx had a love of the theater—her mother, she says, named her after Jinx Falkenburg, the model—and Barry Levin says he had worked for more than 20 years in the fashion industry.

Once, when Cory was 5, Jinx says, she noticed a fancy dress at Macy's. "Ooh! Pitty dress!" Cory cried. But when her mother saw what it cost, she hid it. "And do you know, she pawed through all the clothes on that rack until she found it? 'Nooo! I want the pitty dress!'"

The family, she says, lived in West Hollywood and Manhattan Beach before moving to Santa Monica in 2000, where they enrolled the kids in public schools. All was more or less calm until the twins hit adolescence. Then, Jinx says, Chris fell in with a fast crowd and began having behavioral problems. Cory's friends were more sheltered, but by the start of her sophomore year, Cory, too, seemed lonely and anxious. Jinx was alarmed; her family, she says, had a genetic predisposition to depression. Though Cory says she has never smoked pot, let alone tried hard drugs, the Kennedy-Levins didn't take any chances. They signed up both twins for therapy and weekly drug tests.

Cory remembers the period without resentment. "I was just struggling all around," she recalls, adding that she'd had bouts of sadness as far back as fourth grade. Nor did it help that her social circle was populated with some of the most privileged and pressured adolescents in Southern California. "I was with great people, but I've always felt like I needed to do something more for myself, to be, like, five steps ahead of the game."

Finally, Cory says, she left school and stayed home for two weeks. She wasn't drinking or doing drugs, she says. She was "just sad." Eventually, her mother enrolled her in a monthlong, in-patient UCLA program to treat depression. "We had Halloween there and it was really weird, because we had to go trick-or-treating in the hospital," Cory remembers. When she was discharged, she says, she opted to do her classwork via independent study rather than risk a relapse by returning in the middle of the school year.

This, Jinx Kennedy says, was why she was optimistic when her daughter announced that she was going to augment her independent study with an internship at a photography business. "We were just glad that she was happy," Jinx says. And when it became apparent that the almost-21-year-old photographer was dating her not-quite-16-year-old daughter, she says, she insisted that the couple spend their time together at the Kennedy-Levin home, where she could watch them.

"I said, 'Mark, I love you dearly and I'd hate to put you in jail, but I'd do it in a New York minute,'" she remembers. In truth, though, she and her husband felt that Hunter was good for their daughter: "I thought she would be protected because Mark is a great guy."

First came the photos: Cory eating. Cory bicycling. Cory posing next to a brick wall. Cory on the sand. Cory at a party. Cory unaware that her picture was being taken. Cory trying to look grown-up, smoking a cigarette, holding a beer.

"I can't take my eyes off of her. She's got something that intrigues me," marveled a blogger in February at fashionologie.com. The response was instantaneous: "Who is she?" . . . "No one famous, just a girl from California . . . " " . . . She's kind of famous here at the ElleGirl-forum in Holland . . . " "I go to school with her . . . "

Then came the numbers. Hunter is assiduous about tracking use of his website, and he noticed that every time he'd run a picture of Cory, "I'd start seeing all this traffic from fashion community sites."

The next step seemed obvious, says Cory: "I thought, 'Hmm. This could maybe go somewhere.'"

Hunter says he already had a modest network of fashion industry connections, and he knew that leveraging Cory's popularity would raise his profile. Demand for her as, say, a model, meant demand for him as her gatekeeper and photographer. "I'm not a superstar. But if I can create a superstar," he remembers thinking, "it'll be good for my career, for her career, for all of us."

By now it was the beginning of April, about 3 months after Cory's first day as an intern. Cory's family was going to New York for a spring-break vacation; Hunter met them there and, on a free afternoon, took Cory to meet a friend of his who is the editor in chief of Nylon, a national fashion and cultural magazine. "We were doing our music-MySpace issue and looking for real girls to be in that story and immediately liked her," says Marvin Scott Jarrett, who asked Cory to come back for a photo shoot the next day.

Jinx Kennedy had never heard of Nylon. She says she just thought Cory's boyfriend was taking her to meet one of his buddies. But she does recall being surprised at the number of New Yorkers who seemed to know her daughter.

"People were running up to us going, 'Cory! Hey, Cory!'" she remembers. "We were at that restaurant Pastis, and a kid named DeeJam? DJ AM? A deejay? came up to her and started talking. I thought, 'Gee, Cory knows people all over. How nice!'"

Jinx's friends tried to educate her. One in particular mentioned Cory repeatedly. "She'd say, 'Are you keeping a close watch on Cory? 'Cause she's getting her picture all over the Internet.' I'd say, 'Oh, it's just that Mark is shooting her and he's smitten.' And she'd say, 'You should get into her MySpace, because I think this is really big.'"

But, Jinx says, she had neither the will nor the computer savvy to imagine what might be happening in the alternative universe of Cory's online persona. And, in any case, such things seemed trivial compared with her concerns for her child's emotional and psychological health.

It wasn't until the June issue of Nylon hit the newsstands that she realized her daughter was being swept up into something bigger. The New York Times ran an article on interns and mentioned Cory's relationship with Hunter. The LA Weekly did a short piece, calling Cory a "club urchin." Real-world recognition fed online demand. By fall, one of the hottest things on the Web was a video of Cory eating Indian food while rocking out to a Good Charlotte song on an iPod—the creation of Nylon's Jarrett, who had been hired to direct some of the band's rock videos as a sideline.

"Cory kept telling me she was a big deal," Jinx recalls. "She'd say, 'Mom, you don't know how big I'm getting.' I'd say, 'Don't get too big for your britches.' She'd say, 'I'm famous.' And I'd say, 'You're a child.'"

The breaking point came with the start of a new school year. Cory was still doing independent study, having convinced her parents that, though her "internship" was over, she needed flexibility to pursue her budding fashion career. Her arguments weren't outlandish, notes her father, who remembers the hard work and long hours of his own years in fashion. "And she's so mature for her age," he says, and she did seem to be in demand.

She had a blog now and a column in Nylon. And, she says, she was being paid $100 or more a night by high-profile L.A. clubs such as LAX and Teddy's to show up with her friends (an arrangement that apparently required a certain amount of nodding and winking, given that she was only 16).

But as the weeks passed, Cory's hours became later, Jinx says, and for the first time she began to worry. Cory and Hunter had broken up—fame had, indeed, increased demand for his work—and he traveled a lot. Cory insisted that to capitalize on her newfound fame, she had to go out without him, on weeknights as well as weekends. "She'd say Tuesdays and Thursdays are when the glamour people go out," her mother says, "that Saturday and Sunday are for tourists."

Nor did it help that now real celebrities wanted to meet her. "Cory would say, 'I'm going to Paris' party,' and I was, 'Oh, honey, no. She's 25!'" Jinx says. "She'd say, 'Lindsay Lohan wants to meet me at the Chateau Marmont.' And I'd say, 'Yeah, right.' But then I'd drive her up there, and there she was in a trench coat—Lindsay Lohan!"

Cory's blog gives a hint of the direction she was headed: "I'm home from Paris Hilton's house" . . . "talked to Sean Lennon today about hosting the Nylon Halloween party" . . . "Vincent Gallo tried to hook up with me . . . "

Meanwhile, Jinx says, people were approaching her at the hairdresser and in restaurants, asking whether it was true, say, that Ashanti was mad at her daughter or that Cory was on the outs with the Olsen twins. ("My mom was like, 'Cory, are you being mean to the twins?'" Cory recalls, laughing.)

She tried grounding Cory. When that seemed too punitive, she tried hiring her a driver, which didn't work either. "I would call her an annoying five or six times a night," Jinx says. "'Where are you? What's going on? It's 2 in the morning. This is out of control.'"

We are in Cory Kennedy's bedroom. Present are Cory, Hunter, this reporter and Nate Van Dusen, a filmmaker who is featuring Cory in a new documentary. It's one of those media-age moments: a documentarian filming a photographer shooting a journalist interviewing a teenager. Not to mention the scene in the kitchen, where Cory's middle sister, an aspiring actress, is entertaining Nick Simmons, her new boyfriend, the son of Kiss' Gene Simmons and a rising star of reality TV.

Van Dusen, who is 27, is focusing on how kids under 21 are directly influencing culture. His goal is to finish his project in time to submit it to the next Sundance Film Festival. He's interested in Cory's impact on teenage fashion, which at the moment is significant. This month her picture is in at least four glossy magazines.

"Cory, is it AT ALL possible you could tell me where you got those shades?" fans write on her MySpace page, which, at last count, had 3,700 "friends" listed. Young girls ask how she gets her hair into its signature cascade of unkemptness. They study her photos and copy her shoes, her headbands, even the little red dot of broken capillaries under her right eye.

"Best outfit . . . EVER!!!" one gushes. Waxes another: "I heart your moonboots."

Cory finds this both understandable and amusing. "I do dress differently," she says. "I would probably look at Cory Kennedy if I didn't know her." Fans compare her to Liv Tyler and Fiona Apple, though she mostly just looks like a charming and unusually un-self-conscious teenager. She is all hair and legs. Her laugh is a daffy "yuk-yuk." She's in blue-and-orange short-shorts, an Oxford-cloth blouse and a clump of tangled necklaces. She has a cowboy boot on one foot and a dirty white anklet on the other.

And it is, in fact, hard to stop looking at her, not so much because she is so lovely but because she is so transparent. "It's like an Ingredient X, and some people have it and some people don't," is how Nylon's Jarrett explains it. She seems almost oblivious to the camera. She had boasted, in a prior conversation, that her mother was once in show business. "She still gets residuals and stuff, which is so cool," she'd said. "I hope I get residuals someday too."

When asked what, in this room, reminds her of herself, she points to a pile of CDs (Cream, the Doors, Nirvana) and a shelf heaped with books on Richard Avedon and Andy Warhol.

"These are my favorite pants," she says, brandishing a fistful of ragged black Levi's. "There were these boys? And one was a tagger? And they went graffiti-ing all night, like every night? And I go, 'Can I borrow your pants?' And then I never. Gave them. Back. They're so priceless. Like, they're like a piece of art."

Just then her mother peeks through the doorway. Cory shoots her an impatient look. I notice that the sheets on Cory's single bed are hot pink.

"They're not my preference," Cory replies, rolling her eyes. "I'd have all white. If I ever had a bed of my own."
This isn't her bed?
"It's my bed," she grouses. "But it isn't my house."
It isn't?

Well, all right, it is. But at the moment she's technically sleeping at her new school. "Don't say it's a boarding school, say it's a regular school because I don't want people to start rumors like, 'Oh, she went to, like, Utah.' Like I'm one of those kids."

What happened, Cory says, is that her mother overreacted. What happened, her mother says, is that she finally managed to pull her child back from the vortex. In any case, it was a year after her daughter's adventures as an Internet icon began.

An opening arose at the Los Angeles school where Cory's twin sister had lived for the past year, a nonpublic therapeutic placement for kids with various types of learning, behavioral and emotional problems; a conversation with the therapists convinced Jinx Kennedy that a stint there also would benefit Cory.

Phone use is restricted. So are computers. Cory can come home on weekends and go out for short work assignments—say, photo shoots—with parental supervision, but otherwise she has to stay in her room on school nights. "I've been asked to go back and, like, change my clothes. And brush my hair," Cory says, groaning. "It's one of my, like, goals to come to school looking clean. And that's not happening. Because that's just not how I roll." Her mother is firm: "I say, 'If you play it right and follow the rules, you'll be back home soon. . . . If you're famous now, you'll still be famous then.'" Meanwhile, the Web waits. "Whhhhhhhhhere is misscorykennedy?" mourned a recent post on MySpace.
"Status: Away," she blogged as January ended and February arrived with her 17th birthday. "brb.....finding myself."




gå och bli medlemmar på facebook nu nu nu. det är helt amazing.
puss stacy.

yes i'm a like hot chick that you can't even touch, i like this cold ass bitches and i ain't ready to suck.

efter samtliga påhopp från grethe skaffade jag till slut facebook.
vilket verkar vara helt mobbat.
så bli vänner med mig. så att jag känner mig mindre mobbad. snälla.

och nu skriver någon konstig snoppvarelse till mig och undrar;
how do i know you?
alltså, jag är så jäkla trött på alla snoppvarelser i det här landet.
gå och hitta en fucking sjögurka, den kan ni ha kul med.
but leave me alone.


fan så mobbat. patetiskt.

i held you like a lover sweaty hands and your elbow in the appropriate place.

om jag vore yvan så skulle jag med största sannolikhet inte kunna sova på nätterna.
för att jag skulle ligga uppe och inte kunna sluta tänka på alla supertjusiga människor jag har stött på.

puss stacy.