They say you die and go to heaven. If the latter is true, I really wish God would grant me a bail and let me stay put in my Chanel black and white silk coffin for eternity. The thing is I’m not a Heaven’s person. It’s tacky. Often people envision such place as conflict free, anger-managed, white-trash condo with built in facilities completed with squirrels, possibly Madre Teresa, and all things catholic gathered around a somewhat large green village whose mayor is none other than an improved version of deceased Steve Jobs. Free Ipads to all. I puke.

Heaven lacks conflict. If you think it trough: what defines us as Human beings is our resilient combat mode ready to face oddity. Strip that down, and you’ll have raccoons. What would Diana Spencer be without Paparazzo’s to both ruin and document her life? And what would Chanel’s fate be if it wasn’t for Karl Lagerfeld’s childhood traumas? And finally, what would the last Balmain collection stand for if missing Cathy Horyn’s catwalk report? Really: nothing other than a bore. So, my thought evolves into thinking that if we strip conflict out of life, thus channelling heaven, life would pretty much be living hell.

I remember Christian summer camp. AYOR: major WASPY annoying flashback. When I was young, we were to fake that there wasn’t sin in our hearts, and praying to Jesus at 4pm Summer time was actually a blissful experience. Amishly obeying my Tutor while holding the rosary, I eagerly waited my time to pray out loud. When the time came, I didn’t pray, I laughed, embarrassingly and sacrilegly laughed. Peace, as that orderly state of mind where everything is draw to make sense, is an honest joke, and back in the day, I already knew it.

If there is something curiously boring about somebody else’s happiness, it’s because humans as project beings do not enjoy a complete piece of work. The plot is finished at they lived happily ever after, because past there, nothing remains worth mentioning: paying taxes, mow the lawn, or maybe some sex escapades with the gardener after the dawn, neither of which is too strong of a reason to hold people in their cinema’s chair. Maybe Mariah Carey would struggle leaving, but that’s a weight problem.

I don’t want your mercy. I want a bitch slap in my face whenever I’m out in the street wearing Miu Miu’s Hitchcock references because I thought it stands for cool. It doesn’t. Ingenuity is so last season that you would be paying public service if taping Taylor Swift’s mouth with Chris Brown rapist tape. Of course it would be charming cancelling all Friday social appointments and make room for a cuddle night in front of the TV tucked in your lovers arms while watching Glee kids on their journey to sectionals, but the thing is, by the end of the episode you will be dying to trade places with any of those imbibes and be high Scholl struggling with identity, or just remodelling your kitchen. Either way, people need conflict.

Both marriage and Kate Moss genetics are dead ends. Where can you go from there? It’s either divorce or cocaine, alas destroying your Wheel of Constructive Interactions. Holding on to everlasting totems, be world peace or a Rainier the Third wedding ring, is a free pass to heaven, and rumour has it, heaven was quite a bore. So keep those to yourselves. You can either choose to guest star as Grace Kelly in Grimaldi’s neoclassic on a budget cage, or play the wild beast, running like a hot mess in a bitch savannah, where seducing the gay sales assistant to hide that Celine jacket until it hits sales, grounds as your prioritised survival goal. It’s not pristine or pretty, but hey: at least you fight it.