I know this much is true.
A cobblestone, rusty nail covered dead end alley that T's into a cesspool known as the Gowanus Canal, with grungy houseboats and punk rock inhabitants, can somehow become the breeding ground for radioactive water and incensed contempt for the egos that fail to bleed through on your HD screens.
I know what this must sound like.
Spiteful, theatrical queen stuck behind the camera lens and in the dim, frigid shadows of New York's towers and other's surmounting fame falls prey to envy, but that would be far from factual.
Yet, I stare at my distorted reflection in the bubbling battery acid floating on top of the sewer sludge, and see the grim faces of many of the Mafia chosen before me.
And my fate beside them, sinking below the surface if this season doesn't end soon.
Is that too sensational?
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