proportions. I find myself the center of a storm of my own making, but over which I have no control. Kyle’s camp fired back literally within minutes of my video with denials and prepared statements. My parents have made no contact, other than a regretful message from Baker indicating that he has been told I’m no longer a part of his responsibility to the Baston family and will need to find other means of transportation. I guess that’s my parents’ way of disowning me. Kyle’s team has already resurrected the most scandalous of my exploits: the affair with a married man—homewrecker. The picture I knew could be out there somewhere, of me snorting a line of cocaine during Paris Fashion Week years ago—druggie. The two guys who claimed we had a threesome on that tequila-drenched night that I barely remember—whore. And, of course, my infamous Playboy spread—exhibitionist. Mine. Trevor said that was the only label I needed to worry about, but every day a new label is slapped on my back, each one weighing more than the last.
