2008-02-10


Perfect skin is everywhere, but not in a terrifying LA sort of way. Hair is held in chignons or greased back. I lean back in a filigree sofa of pale blue satin from the Rococo period. Flowers are everywhere--enormous presentations and tiny little sprigs in Wedgewood Jasperware vases. Before me is an elegant Wedgewood Jasperware coffee set. All of us partake in a cup of smooth kitty-shit coffee that cost nearly hundreds of dollars and took three weeks to deliver. Innocuous conversation persists and who cares? Life is such a disappointment to everyone that something so flippant is relief. At least our clothes are soft and comfortable we think ,as we brush off the pug hair from our Costume National.
Something sparkles in the corner of my eye. It's a vast overwhelming chandelier that consumes the whole room and detracts from the fabulous paneling and saccharine paintings of men and women pretending to be moral.

I stink of perfume like a whore. It's Cartier, I say. No, I'm not Kimora Lee Simmons, I think. The word "fabulous" is so fucking annoying I could scream. Last time I looked in the mirror I was white, so no, I'm not fabulicious. "You're so calm" they all say. All my bills are paid for. That's why I'm calm.

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