A peek at the diary of Paula Abdul

‘My name is Paula Abdul, and I am no longer held back by America's highest rating television show.’ Photograph: GABRIEL BOUYS/AFP/Getty Images

Woke up and repeated the same mantra I've been saying every morning since I made the decision to get clean of American Idol: my name is Paula Abdul, and I am no longer held back by America's highest rating television show. People have no idea how exhausting it is explaining the power of positive thinking to a sexually confused red state teen who has just butchered You Raise Me Up – especially when you know what you want to say, but can't seem to hack down the dense thicket of rambling incoherence and liberate the sleeping princess of clarity enclosed therein. To do that once a week for an entire series is insane, and it's been wonderful to get off that crazy rollercoaster.

This morning I poured myself a prescription painkiller bubble bath and lay back and did what I call just enjoying being in my moment. This can mean anything from taking a few hours to get fascinated by the pretty colours in the bubbles to rambling excruciatingly in a live TV broadcast. Afterwards, I reassured my fans that I am sifting through so many wonderful, wonderful offers. So many major executives have reached out to me, anxious to have me do for their shows what I did for Idol – namely turn it into a global phenomenon at the same time as providing constant support dramas, in the form of a hit-and-run accident, or an alleged affair with a contestant, or those absurd stories about my substance use. Sure, I know I admitted the last one once. But I was high at the time, OK?