The fading celebrity trophy life ranks as one of the easiest jobs of modern life.
Refresh your fillers enough that the Daily Mail can never describe you as “tired-looking” in a supposedly candid shot staged outside, pop out just enough children that your trainer and your plastic surgeon can nip you back into a size two, and develop just enough of a rapport with your mindless friends that they’ll buy whatever FitTea or slave-labor made swimsuit you’re paid to tag in your inexplicably popular Instagram posts.
Oh, and perhaps don’t pretend to be a borderline-racist caricature of a barely literate Latina woman when you’re actually whiter than Wonder Bread.
