Rebel Rising

I have in my second home in Los Angeles, because yes, I have two homes. One house up in the Hollywood Hills is where I actually live. It has a view of my beloved Hollywood sign. Sometimes I get coyotes and the occasional stalker, both of which freak me the fuck out. But apart from that, it is very peaceful. It's like a Snow White house. Hummingbirds fly around the bird feeder, bunnies come out at sunset in the backyard, a giant deer once appeared randomly just outside my bedroom, squirrels run across the roof in the morning, like, and I can hear them while I'm in bed. Some nights you can see the fireworks from Universal Studios' Harry Potter Castle. My other house is in West Hollywood, and I call it the office house. It stores all my movie posters and memorabilia. I'm not that up myself that I have that stuff in my real house. It's all in my office house. So there's the picture of me working with Channing Tatum in an MTV promo sketch, right before he touched my boobs, which I craftily had written into the script and told him to do if he wanted to do it. Obviously, that was a highlight of my career. The picture of me working with Ben Stiller on Night at the Museum's Secret of the Tomb. I froze my tits off working with him all night. It was the middle of winter, but it's awesome to work with legends, and when you can get them to crack a smile in a scene, even better. My original Bellas performing outfit from Pitch Perfect. The navy skirt suit and necktie that made us look a bit like singing airline stewardesses. No further boob comments to add. My cheerleading outfit from senior year that made me feel like I could do the splits. I still can't. My stunt double Meredith can, though. She's great. Ah, the memories. There's wigs from when I performed live at the Hollywood Bowl in Disney concerts. A camera slate from Cats, signed by Dame Judi Dench, James Corden, Sir Ian McKellen, Idris Elba, Taylor Swift, etc. My Academy membership, yes. I am in the Academy, bitches. I get to vote for the Oscars now. I do feel like a success, especially when I'm in that office house. I drive past Rodeo Drive, you know, the one with all the posh shops, shops I've never actually shopped in, mainly because I could never ever fit into any of their clothes. I can buy the handbags, the pointless silk scarves, never the clothes, though. I normally wear cheaper plus-size brands that are sold online to save myself the indignity of having to try on something in a store. I'm a US size 16 to 18, which is the average size of an American woman. Most women in America are considered plus-size, but in Hollywood, where I now live, less than 1% of us are bigger girls. There are only, like, a few of us. Melissa McCarthy, Gabourey Sidibe, Queen Latifah, Chrissy Metz, I know I'm forgetting some, but seriously, there are not many. We're like a rare sighting. The leopards of the LA private game park. Also, some actresses would get offended if I called them plus-size in this book, so I kind of have to be careful with what I say. This is why I think Adele hates me. There was a moment when she was bigger, and some people would confuse us for one another. I'd be in England, and people would come up and say, oh, I love your new album. I legit signed an autograph once as Adele at Claridge's because the people truly thought I was her and wouldn't leave me alone until I did. I am assuming, because to be fair, I have never asked her, she always, like, quickly turns away from me at the few events where I've seen her, as if my fatness might rub off on her if I were near her for more than 30 seconds, that she didn't like being compared to fat Amy, whereas I, personally, was flattered by the comparison. Adele is fucking awesome. I drive past my agency, WME, William Morris Endeavor, on Wilshire, the biggest talent agency in the world. They signed me on my second day in America a decade ago, because they didn't have anyone like me on their books. The combo being plus-size, Australian, and a multi-hyphenate, that means, like, actress-writer-producer, was unique, but I'll get to that story later, too. My GPS tells me to turn right, and I pull into the parking structure. I've had instructions to come through a side door, because I'm a VIP celebrity. So I drive to a specific floor, and meet a special nurse who's holding the exit door open for me while scrolling on her phone. I pay extra for this treatment. I don't want anyone to notice me being at this clinic, because, um, today, it's personal. I do not want the paps to follow me. They normally get me in my leggings just going for a walk by myself, that's the usual shot that quickly pops up on the daily mail. If I'm doing something super scandalous or private, I make sure to ditch them through my expert Jason Bourne driving techniques. I can ditch those motherfuckers if I really want to ditch them, but today, luckily, I don't have to. I enter the side door of the floor that houses a high-end reproductive centre. It's not as flashy as what you might think. It's still more medical than Beverly Hills.