Triology completed

She could barely make out its sagging contours, but it was a shed. His hand, that previously had been moist, had begun to feel like ice. The hold was beginning to chafe her skin.

We have arrived, he said but wasn't smiling.

She wondered about her cousin, if she was waiting for her. Maybe eating a corn dog or some stale popcorn. They had planned to go to a movie.

What are we doing here? She said and tried to find that flirtatious smile in her files. But it merely hiked the corners of her mouth up. No sparkles reached her eyes. Something wasn't right, she could feel it.

A moon sliver had appeared in the sky. It glared down upon them coldly and she could see that there was dirt under the boy's finger nails.

Don't play dumb, he said.

And that made her feel dumb. And suddenly every bone in her body knew what was going to happen.

She didn't resist when he pushed her down onto an old mattress inside the musty-smelling shed. Even though she was silent, he placed his palm over her lips. Perhaps he wanted to be ready to catch the screams he expected. His palm was sweaty again.

He lifted her dress, the flimsy cotton one that had made her feel so pretty just a couple of hours ago. He pulled down her panties and spread her thighs. She tried to think about technicolor cotton candy and Ferris Wheel rides. So she wouldn't feel him trashing inside her. His face was contorted. It looked like he was in pain. She didn't understand why he was hurting both of them.

But she tried to think about all the little things that made her happy; well-tended flower beds, juicy Sunday roasts, petting a cat.

The trashing wouldn't stop.

That's how my mother lost her virginity. I wonder how much it shaped the person she became?




images borrowed from one of my favorite blogs: http://ghostwerld.wordpress.com/

At first he seemed sweet, but then he turned out to be a psycho

So before I continue with the story, the story that really isn't mine, I must talk about the party Saturday night.

Avy does know how to throw a party. Her humble abode was filled with pretty girls, good-looking boys, champagne and pixie dust. I brought Signe. As a way to celebrate her birthday and get her out of the house. She needed cheering up, and she needed cake. You should see how skinny she is. I would have liked to stuff her full of Twinkies and french fries, but I made her a vegan cake, so she would eat some.
Anyway, she used to date this guy Benjamin. At first he seemed sweet, but then he turned out to be a psycho. Sounds familiar?
He crashed the party. I don't know how he knew about it, but just after midnight he walked in.
I don't know how many gin and tonics I had had, but I was having a swell time. Miri was also there, and that girl is trouble. She's a lot of fun to hang out with, but something about her worries me.

Anyway, I started chatting up Benjamin. It was easy, I just asked questions and got him talking about his favorite subject; himself. Every now and then his eyes searched the room. I fed him champagne and compliments. I don't understand what Signe ever saw in him. His breath smelled like raw sewage, an extension of his soul, perhaps? But I still wanted to test out my pretty power. I begun to lean in closer. I found short-cuts to skin contact. Until I had my knee in his crotch. He put his paw in my hair. And pulled my head towards his lips. Toxic fumes engulfed me. Last minute I dodged his kiss, and gave him a peck on the cheek. He pulled me down onto a couch.

Did you really think I wanted to do you, man-whore? I said.

Signe was right there. She jumped up on the couch and started yelling that she was looking down on him. I wished she had kicked him in the teeth. But instead she trashed around and broke a vase. Like most things in life it was an accident. The vase was crystal. There was blood. I was dizzy. Benjamin cursing me out with his dragon breath.

And then this other girl, Aurora, collapsed and an ambulance had to come get her. I think she probably spent too much time in the bathroom.

I developed a pre-mature headache and was overcome by existential angst. The kind I get when I think about the fact that we're all going to die. 

She felt a magnetic pull. And a throbbing

Instead he kissed her. There was no fireworks. But bombs going off. Big explosions in the distant and a faint, but unmistakable smell of dynamite. Imagined body parts getting torn into fragments.

She couldn't help but hold onto him. That close it was easy to forget cousins and uncles and the dull homework involving numbers that refused to do what they were supposed to do.

He said; let's go somewhere.

She felt a magnetic pull. And a throbbing.

He led her into the woods. It was getting dark fast. The sound of the people laughing and screaming on the rides was starting to fade out.

They walked until almost all the light was gone. His hand was like a mold on hers. But she did start wondering where they were going.

Almost, he said and turned around, but the shadows were so dark she couldn't see his face.

                                                                     ***

I brought my friend Signe to a party at Avy's house. It was fun until it wasn't.

He wasted no time on sweet nothings

This is not my story. But it could have been.

It was at an amusement park. She was enjoying a ride. I think it was those tea cups that you sit inside and that spin you around and around until all your insides are jumbled up like stew.

It had been a nice day, but dark clouds were approaching, but she hadn't noticed yet. She'd had too many sodas and too much cotton candy, and she felt much better than she had for a long time. She'd almost forgotten that business about the uncle and the kiss on the cheek.

And she felt pretty in her flimsy cotton dress, and her hair smelled of apples.

Spun, she caught the eyes of a boy who stood watching and licking a giant lollipop that dyed his tongue blue. There was a colony of freckles across his pale face. After she caught his eyes, he wouldn't let her go.

She left the cousin and wandered off with the boy. Small clouds of steel-wool begun to drift in. They walked into a park where boom-box r'n'b floated through the air that was already thick with BBQ smoke and frightened baby birds.

They sat down on a rock. He wasted no time on sweet nothings.

Dear fellow Cyberspace dwellers,

 I hope your night is velvet-y and starlit, or, if you inhabit another part of this planet, that your day is filled with sun and maybe little cotton-candy clouds that sail by softly.

I am feeling strangely at ease. Although I have no reason to.

Tonight I am taking a break from blogging to pass a couple of awards along. It is the award-season after all.

First, sweet Sophia over at A poet's Circus awarded me with The Happy Award. I am now supposed to list ten things that make me happy; Music (right now: Fever Ray, Joanna Newsom & The XX), Mullholland Drive (both the movie and the street), LES QUEUES DE SARDINES, El Caminos, driving long distances, popcorn, friends, infatuation (but it makes me miserable too), coffee, cotton-candy.

I pass this Happy Award to:

1. Danica at A sight to be Seen: Her blog is the cutest sweetest thing ever.
2. Jefferson at I got the letter: because he's paying tribute to something we've almost forgotten about.
3. Courtney at Souljane because I love her pix and her style.

Second, amazing Eva who writes the darkly gorgeous Screaming Whispers awarded me with the Honest Scrap and in accordance with this honor I will tell you ten things about myself (and I hope I won't bore you to tears).

I am rarely of use. I like girls (but you knew that already). I've never had an eating disorder, but I do fear flying. I laugh at the basest things. I often go to bars by myself (Mainly The Red Lion, come find me there!). I am anal about flossing. I change hair color frequently. I am scared of the dark. I dream about bygone eras. 

I pass the Honest Scrap thing along to:
1. Signe at Just Another Fucking Blog because girlfriend is raw.
2. Anise at Sometimes I am made of Light because it's beautiful and powerful
3. Miri at California Noir because this girl's got it.


XXX

Painting by Gerhard Richter

Soda Feet and Soda Legs

I found myself – this doesn't happen that often – blank. I had nothing to say, nothing to add. All my thoughts seemed too slippery or unfinished or thought too many times by too many.

I scratched a bug bite instead. And listened to Fever Ray. I browsed blogs. Fashion is seductive even for a slob like me. Still, I can't help but feel disenchanted by the frequency of blogs devoted to consumer goods; things that can be bought and sold. Or stolen.

Shouldn't we concern ourselves with bigger themes like love and death, creation and destruction. Veganism. (As I write this I have chili cheese fries swimming around in a puddle of Dr. Pepper inside my belly). And I can't stop thinking about a pair of French tights that I've seen in some blog or other.
But then I felt inspired by miri to write a druggy post.

The first time I tried acid was with my friend Tilo. He had gotten it from his older brother, the famous DJ. It was during the holidays and we were up in Oregon at his grandma's house. It looked like the fucking Bates Motel and I was terrified of the attic even before we swallowed the blotters. First came the giggles, the uncontrollable ones that had us tangled up and weeping on the floor that later turned into a candy bar. His grandma was luckily not that coherent, but she did wonder what was so funny. I think I told her that Tilo farted. She did not approve of toilet humor so she continued watching HSN.

Along with the giggles came the tingly feeling of little lightning bolts shooting up our spines. Soda feet and soda legs. Tilo's eyes lost all the brown and became black holes. Mine did the same. At first I remember feeling that every thought that came to me was so brilliant, but I could never finish thinking that diamond thought before the next brilliant thought came shoving the first thought out of the way.  It was a bit frustrating, but after awhile I started feeling at ease, connected to Tilo and to the universe that rolled out like a star-strewn blanket.  Everything made sense. I remember saying to Tilo:

This is dangerous, I am going to want to do this everyday now. 

But after awhile the shadows started to lean in and grow octopus-arms. Maybe because it got dark and the grandma went to sleep. There was a fork on the table. I asked Tilo to remove it, because its shape scared the hell out of me. His voice dropped an octave and for awhile I couldn't hear what he was saying because all the words smeared together. But then I heard him loud and clear:

Kim, I've lost a chunk of my brain. We need to go to to the hospital.

Despite me hearing Satan beckoning us from the attic I knew that was a terrible idea. I remember hearing that alcohol could take the edge of, and I found a dusty bottle of brandy in the cabinet and we started drinking.

It wasn't long before we were wasted instead of high. That was familiar territory.

photo by Nan Goldin

Another voodoo doll apparently needs to be made

I am determined to actually go to bed tonight. I am sick of the demons and the distant sirens I always hear during the witching hour. Sometimes a howl cuts through the night like a dull knife and my mind takes me places I don't want to be.
I have no control over it. Dad tells me to start meditate. But considering he's the biggest douchebag in Los Angeles I don't really want to take up anything he claims does wonders for one's mind and spirit.

I went to Bardot on Vine tonight for about two seconds. I went with Mark, this gay boy who knows a lot of "important" people. It was not my scene. The place was filled with rail-thin blondes staggering around on ridiculously high heels clutching their blackberries and their one-month's-salary-in-Watts-purses. It was such a relief to walk out into the cool night and to drive down Sunset, back to my hood where actual chicanas and cholos still live.

Monica sent me an email the other day. I am definitely over her now. Once again the world has been gifted with a seriously psychotic shrink.

Dear Kim,


I hope this letter finds you well. I am doing a lot better since I last saw you. My husband and I have truly worked things out, and we've rekindled the flame. The other night we had fantastic sex on the balcony. I am sure all the neighbors could hear us. That really brought us closer. My motherly instincts have also returned. I now love being a mother, making lunch and such. I see my future, our future (my family's) as bright. We have discussed moving to Pasadena. I think change would do us good. My therapist have prescribed me another medication. She took me off the zoloft, and now I take both an anti-depressant and an anti-anxiety drug. That in combination with regular work-out sessions (pilates and spinning) has really elevated my mood.


Kim, I think you are a sweet girl. I am really sorry about the mess we made. It was my fault of course, although you acted very flirtatious. I wasn't myself at all when you came into my life, that's the only defense I have. As you know, I am not gay, never have been, never will be. The thought of the female sex organ in that way actually repulses me. 


Anyway, I hope you find love and that you have a wonderful Valentine's Day.


Best wishes,
Monica

Another voodoo doll apparently needs to be made.

photo by the one and only Dave Lachapelle

He makes her lunch and give her pedicures.

these recurring themes have once again rendered me sleepless; lust, greed and cruelty.

I did pull the wings off a dragonfly once. And then I saved a bunch of tadpoles from drowning. I have so many evil thoughts that I don't want to own up to.

I want Veronica to fail. At least, I want her to fall down and get scabs on that super-humanely pretty milky white skin of hers. But I know that band-aids on her knees would only make her cuter. Have you ever known a girl that's just perfect?
Veronica is flawless. She's why-can't-I-be-her? She has the one relationship in the world I am actually envious of. Her boyfriend gives her rides and flowers. He's funny and gorgeous. He makes her lunch and gives her pedicures. When we were younger, and I would go over to her house a lot, I would often spend hours and hours hanging out with her parents. They are – despite being both rich and famous – super-cool. They give their daughter love, not things. They gave me love when I needed it. Veronica has natural strawberry blond hair in which a chunk of rainbow forever is trapped.
And just last week she got the internship that I had applied for and wanted badly. I almost constructed a voodoo doll of Veronica to stick needles into.

When she found out that I had applied for that too, she called me and apologized and then she came over with heart-shaped vegan cookies that she had baked.

And I just found myself imagining Veronica in a terrible car accident that had her legs twisted around her waist, her face a bloody pulp.

I don't know who makes me more sick; her or me.

Update: Neighbor denied ever seeing my iphone. His beast is too scary to deal with. Monica wrote me a strange email that I think I will post here. I may go meet Justin soon. I am not sure why I should. I figure: Say yes to life.

Images by badass Tracey Emin

The Kate'n'Steve game.

In another place, in another time.

His name was Justin. And I didn't know much. We were just two American kids in Greece, on this island called Corfu. The water was postcard-turquoise, the waves rolled softly in over sandy beaches below a cotton-candy sky, in a landscape dotted with jagged rocks and goats. At least I think I remember goats and their weird satanic eyes.

My parents were busy getting drunk on Retsina and fighting in the hotel room. Justin's parents had a house that they returned to every summer for a month or two. His father was a writer and would sit typing on an actual typewriter, on the terrace overlooking the sea. I thought that was pretty badass, even back then. His mother, on the other hand, wore the apron as if it was tattooed on her body. And she always seemed uneasy, as she served us crackers and milk or Greek salads or whatever it was she served us. I remember thinking, even back then, that I'd rather die than be like her.

Justin and I spent the days snorkeling, reading comic books and perusing shops in pursuit of souvenirs that we didn't have any money to buy. One day I shoplifted a key-ring with a shell that said Corfu attached to it. I gave it to Justin. Maybe he saw that as a sign.
Because that evening – we were alone in their house for some reason – he suggested we'd play a game that he called the 'Kate'n'Steve game. Steve was his older brother. He had plenty of chest hair and a gold earring. And Kate was his girlfriend back in the States.

I said: Ok, let's play this 'Kate'n'Steve game.

Justin instructed me to lay down on the sofa in the living room. He went to get his dad's briefcase. Then he went outside. I lay there waiting for a moment. After a minute or so Justin opened the door and shouted: Honey, I'm home. Then he sat the briefcase down and came and laid on top of me. First he just laid there. I felt uncomfortable under his weight. Then he started to move up and down, rubbing his crotch against mine.

I didn't mind. I didn't mind at all. I felt carbonated and flushed.

After that we began to play the Kate'n'Steve game all the time.


Thing is, this Justin guy just showed up on FB. He lives in Los Angeles now.

Tabula Rasa

Blogging while drunk is not something you should do. I am perfectly aware of that. I am also, as we speak, as I type, perfectly plastered. Bourbon is a beautiful thing. So is taxi cabs.

I called Monica half an hour ago. When the voice mail picked up I called again. And again. Then I threw my iphone into the neighbor's backyard. They have a Doberman who's Satan incarnated. One day that beast will eat me, I am certain.

And I loved my cellphone nearly as much as I loved Monica's kisses.

I promise all of you that by tomorrow afternoon, monster headache aside, I will be a clean slate; a Tabula Rasa.

Sweet dreams to anyone that may read this!

her new limited edition violet nikes

I have a friend named Rita. She lives in West Hollywood. Her apartment has a walk-in closet filled with sneakers. She circles the globe on jet planes, dipping down in places like Tokyo, Stockholm and Beirut to get a hold of some rubber-soled treasures.

She's told me that she's spent many nights in the closet arranging the sneakers. She's tried organizing them by colors, by price and by names.

She likes to wear sneakers when she fucks. Which she rarely does, because she's also terrified of germs. She's one of those girls that has to use 15 napkins or so, when using a public restroom. First, she covers the seat with them, then she uses a couple to hold the flusher, then the door knob of the stall, the faucet and finally the restroom door.
Today Rita and I had lunch together at the In'n'Out. Except she only got a water. She was supposed to comfort me, but I ended up having to comfort her.

First, she talked about every square inch of her new limited edition violet nikes that she'd ordered off the Internet.

Then she told me that she thinks about dying all the time. That she imagines that dying would feel like the most intense orgasm, followed by a warm pool of soft darkness.

I asked her why.

She said that the anti-depressants only have caused her to gain weight and that therapy is a waste of time and money. And that the world is cruel and hideous. And that her parents never loved her.

I love you, I said. But it was a lie. A white lie, yes, but nevertheless a lie.

I don't love her. I don't even know why I am still friends with her. We've grown apart since high school. We have little in common apart from our age and hometown. She's boring and self-absorbed. And she's cheap too. The kind of person who says; you owe me a dollar fifty.

But still, I don't want her to think about dying.

As for myself, I need to stop sulking.

I've always liked crooked teeth

It is the hour of silence. The night is a velvet hoodie, but there's also the premonition of light. That it will come again, and that it won't be too long.

Love is just a wish. It only exists in my head (but the touch still pricks my skin from when I was a believer). I often mock it, but when I dare to be honest, I want it; the romantic kind, the one that saves and damns.

Monica's teeth looked like a wind-worn fence. I've always liked crooked teeth. Her breath on my face was faintly perfume-y. And she could cause permanent damage to my inner organs with her thighs.

Right now I think that I'll always remember the moonlit walk along the beach. When we escaped, drove north after she fought with her husband, the editor, said she was leaving him.

But soon I'll think, what the hell was I thinking.

In the meantime, daddy is here, and he's having loud sex with this hippie-chick (not much older than me) that we met at a brunch spot in Topanga Canyon.


Image by simen johan

i like danger

She took me to an Italian restaurant in Santa Monica. I should have known that our first proper date would also be our last.
In the parking lot outside, Monica lit a joint, and after smoking she called her husband and finished the phone call with sweetie.
THAT felt like a paper-cut. 


Our nervous hands fidgeting above the starched tablecloths, our stocking-feet seeking contact below.

Pot makes me horny. I couldn't help but imagine me, Monica and the panna cotta starring in an R-rated movie.

But Monica had other plans; I have never done something like this before, crossing the line, that is.

And then; I am not even gay.

And later; You are so young.

After we finished pushing our food around the plates I begged her for a farewell fuck. She wouldn't. She said she would give me a referral to another clinic. And that she would work on her marriage and on being a better mother.

I came home and cried and cried.

Why do I let myself get so carried away? So tangled up in happy-ever-after-daydreams?

Daddy tried to comfort me. My wailing interrupted his yoga session. Dressed in tank-top and shorts he came and put his arms around me. But his hug felt like wrestling with a monkey, he's so goddamn hairy.

I texted Monica. No replies.

cul de sac

i know this can only end badly. i can only end up broken and bruised. my deceitful (hateful) heart is leading me down this cul de sac. there is no turning back.

i hear daddy downstairs practicing the sitar. distant sirens wailing down sunset. i have my own emergency.

monica's eyes shift from chocolate to pitch black swiftly.  monica has a child who destroyed her life, much in the same way as i destroyed my mother's.

Monica with the violent velvet tongue.

the throbbing we do.

I can't see you anymore. she said. And I shattered.

As your therapist I mean.

I could hear this shopaholic wife with sad eyes and dry skin cough on the other side of the door.

I still straddled her.


photos borrowed from bruno dayan and http://ghostwerld.wordpress.com/

Monday dread

despite not having a job (but a decent cash flow),  I always have angst on Sundays. Could this Monday-dread be embedded in my genes?
I mean, it's not like I have to be somewhere, do something. I can just continue to be useless.

Yes, I watched the Golden Globes. I do appreciate the crudest form of entertainment sometimes.

I engaged in extreme eating. First vegan pizza, then a whole bag of Reese's Pieces, 2 cans of coke, a bag of chips. Some cantaloupe. I waited and finally, an hour ago, Monica texted. We have a date tomorrow.

There are a thousand moths in my belly. And the bruise is getting paler by the minute.

Monica

Let's call her Monica.
Monica claims to be 41, but I think she might be a bit older. She's vain; I know this because I've rummaged through her purse once. It contained more creams than a Walgreens.
She's had some work done too. Her nose is a bit generic.

I started therapy just before I left for Berlin. Dad said I lacked direction and that he suspected I was suffering from a chronic dull level of depression.

So I went to this clinic in Silverlake. And I met Monica. She is an ex-Freudian, now a firm believer in cognitive therapy. And pills. She didn't want to hear me talk about the past. Stay with what's going on now, she said. The past has past.

She's married to an LA Times editor. They fuck once every two weeks. According to her foreplay consists of him asking her if they should do it. Then he kisses her, generically, and starts to unbutton his pants. They have a child. And a nanny to take care of that child.

I liked her from the start. Those legs and those baby-blue panties peeking out. But I didn't like therapy. I didn't like the way it made me feel self-indulgent. Paying someone to listen to my problems made me feel as if I had no problems (which I do).

Then, just before Christmas, I ran into her in the parking lot, and we got to talking. Just small talk you know, about what we would do for the holidays. She asked me if I would come sit in her car and listen to her favorite song. It was 'Maps' by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, which surprised me. Maybe I am prejudiced now, but she seemed too old to like it.

We sat there listening and the air was so loaded I felt I had to chew every breath I took.


Wait, they don't love you like I love you

images borrowed from super-cool: ghostwerld.wordpress.com/

I don't know, but she seems to like violence

the first thing i noticed when i sat down on that couch – the color of unexplored parts of the grayscale and so firm it hurt my ass – was her legs. Slender but strong. Those legs were not just made for walking, but for kicking, trashing, hurting.

And do you realize how much I hurt now? If I hadn't lost my camera during our Moonlight drive along Mullholland Drive, I would post a picture of the bruise, mapping out only a tiny fraction of my pain. It's slithering its way across my lower ribs and around my back.


I don't know, but she seems to like violence.

Maybe it's payback time?

After our first session she asked me how it felt. And I said, a little like getting a pedicure.
At that I saw her jaw tensing and I saw her brown eyes turn black like those holes at the outskirts of the milky way.

Do you know how long I've been studying? she asked me. And when she re-crossed her legs I caught a glimpse of her panties.

I have never been kissed like I was kissed tonight. It really felt as if she was sucking my soul out. And I liked it.

I am having an affair with my married therapist.

the heart is overrated

the heart is most certainly not to be trusted.
sure, it seems real and all when it trashes in your ribcage,when it yearns and shoots jolts of pain-infused desire down to your crotch area.
But it’s also the heart that makes you beg in the most unflattering way, the heart that makes you forgive the fist that gave you a bruiser. Because you love him, and lover conquers all.
It’s the heart that makes you smash your brand new iphone. because that text never came.

i think the heart is overrated. trust the brain.

that said, i am falling in love as we speak. And the object my heart has fixated itself upon is highly inappropriate. And I mean HIGHLY.
more on this soon.

I was really starting to like him, despite everything

This was a long time ago. Back then I had even less of a clue. And i believed in Santa Clause. Because he would come, reeking of booze, and he would bring me books, the toy of the season and banana republic sweaters (way too frumpy to be seen in public in).

I fell in love with a boy retard cripple in a wheelchair. I was visiting my aunt and uncle in Venice. We were down at the boardwalk buying ice cream when I saw this boy all by himself next to some garbage bins. It was as if someone had just rolled him into the shade and left him there. He was wearing a visor and the ice cream he was clutching was melting all over his hand. His legs were super-skinny and twisted in a way that looked as if he'd a category 5 hurricane had had its way with them, and at the bottom of these legs were a pair of velcro sneakers. His face was dull and expression-less, in the usual retard way, but his eyes were electric green. Even the high noon sun couldn't wash them out.

I left my aunt and uncle in line and started walking towards him. I hesitated. He could have been dead had it not been for those laser beam eyes. There was a little pool of drool forming at the corner of his mouth.

Then he spoke, in a voice that sounded as if it came from a burning bush;
We have something in common you and I.

I took a few steps closer, not sure that I'd heard him right.

Neither of us are enjoying this sunny day. He smiled a bit and there was ice cream all over his crotch now – a whole puddle. His lips were really full.

No, I don't really like the boardwalk that much.

I know what you mean, all those fucking rollerblades. A bubble of spit formed and bursted as he spoke these words with venom.

I was really starting to like him, despite everything. But just then a girl in short shorts, hot pink lipstick and a blond pony-tail whipping her bare back came hurrying past me saying; we're leaving now, Steven. They said we have to go. And she power-walked south down the boardwalk, pushing Steven in front of her.

I couldn't stop thinking about him for weeks. I even went down to Venice Beach a few more times looking for him.

But that was it.

Beauty

I knew this beautiful girl who felt bad about all parts of her body.

She said; my ears look like Jewish boy ears, that's why I can't wear my hair up.

She also said: I can only wear A-line skirts because my hips are too wide. And I must always wear high heels since my legs are too short. And not wearing pantyhose isn't an option, there are too many visible veins running up and down my legs.

Her neck was so hideous she had to wear turtlenecks always, even to the beach. She bleached her hair every other week, so that no roots would ever show. She also shaved off her eyebrows to 'feel blond in the way Marilyn did.'
Her hands were, according to her, unbelievably hideous, but there wasn't much she could do about that.

Her diet consisted mostly of carrots and cottage cheese. And cigarettes. Because they don't have any calories.

Then, this beautiful girl became a crack whore. I went to see her in her crack den the other day. Her hair was a halo of steel wool, her body unshapely with fat rolls and sagging, greenish skin. Her teeth had started to rot and her fingers were horribly nicotine-stained. When she greeted me at the door she said:
I am not beautiful anymore.
Well, I recognized you, I said.
Then she said: When I was beautiful I never felt beautiful, but now when I am ugly, I feel beautiful.