We are Hollywood’s cronies. To approach this even more realistically, we are actually living in Hollywood - an alternate version of it but nonetheless it comes with the usual popular A-lists and bitching about the degraded rejects on a clearance rack at a cheap pasar malam store. We are these people, all that we love to hate and hate to love. We’re living the great dream that everything is judged according to a baseline and the local Paris Hilton will be the attention of media and someone is grabbing someone else’s ass, who’s sleeping with who and the rumours and trying to make high school “cool” just like in washed out teen series and romance stories. Sweetie, of course I know it’s no one’s fault that we’re all just aimlessly trying to pull this whole image off and please the world because honestly, there’s no one to blame. Blame it on evolution, Charles Darwin even, dammit. We’re being spoon-fed the Upper East Side traditions and we live with the trend and the more you know how to pronounce Louis Vuitton loo-vee vooh-tohn, the hipper it’ll make us look. The original concept has some sort of unknown source, but this is our friend, our ally, our life. That’s what makes us exist.
So go out there, put on your Chanel foundation powder and then hang out with your posse making the male species cease to exist (now we know where they’ve gone to eh?) and careful not to smudge the lipgloss or attempt crying – no one likes mascara running down your pretty little face now, so go do what you’ve known all your life, because it’s all you know and of course we can’t forget that it’s your life you’re talking about.
Yeah I’ve seen you whine about your waistline, blubbery whale-like thighs, “ohmygod I’m sooo fat”, and you not being able to fit into those great skimpy jeans! You chew on this gum in daily motion, perpetually living with a dictator that tells you what’s hot and what’s not – needing to lose those pounds because that will really really sincerely make you a better person.
I believe that we’re really living in the fairytale, because we coerce ourselves the romantic notions one ought to have: boy and girl, complications involving emo punk-rock music and weeks of crying and depriving sleep to reach the end when you finally get together, you have a “little miss emo” labelled right across your chest because you’re convinced that’s the right thing to do and we haven’t even reach the paramount of it all! The breakup. Climatic point of the whole quadratic equation (we compare love to maths equation all the time), we believe all we need from love is the excessive caress and quality time; intimacy that will make love between dear ol’ Romeo and Juliet all the less mundane. Afterall, they died 5 days after falling in love. No wonder it’s the greatest tragic love story of all time.
Also on the top of the list: someone who showers surprises out of nowhere just to gauge that extra fluid of happiness and then when you go home and wallow in the delight of it and think that the “i love you forever” is true because all that determination will drive you straight into an asylum. Because we live in the upscale metropolis, we hasten our paces even more, enriching our elegant strides, put on our best coats and dresses (oh daaaah-ling just where did you get that gorgeeeous dress?) and suit up.
Buzzing in and out of these conversations we simmer ourselves in, adding condiments on the way, it makes everything all the more interesting. Sometimes we do it so naturally we think this is our true element because it makes it so much easier and less effort to put in other things.
And that’s what makes you a bitch. But who cares about that when we’re talking about how good you will look in the Topshop mirror and spending money on that overpriced top when you know that the manufacturing workers get less than 1% of that beautiful brandished cloth you drape on those sexy curves. Or throw a rampage fit when your favourite Forever 21 store don’t stock your XXXXXXS size (even if you’re far from S because you’re soooo fat, remember?) because Miss Popular has gotten the last piece but because she’s your fashion icon, you forgive her. We can’t forget the times and glory when you got your first Guess bag now can we! Those intricate “G’s” just refreshed your whole appeal and whatmore with those adorable strappy 50-inch heels from Vincci? But then you realise there’s still the queen we all idolise, the one who truly reigns with utmost power, the one armed with Gucci and loo-vee vooh-tohn trinklets and kill with her Manolo Blahniks and Jimmy Choo’s sashaying through her crowd of minions.
What’s left is that we know all we need now is a perfect image to suit that demure looking face and ass. Oh, not to mention breasts. We can’t forget that eh?
I trust that in everyone, we have the Everything-We-Need-To-Know-To-Survive 101 handbook embedded in us. Some people just decide to read it and put it to use, some people don’t care and some people just choose to burn that book.
So go out there, put on your Chanel foundation powder and then hang out with your posse making the male species cease to exist (now we know where they’ve gone to eh?) and careful not to smudge the lipgloss or attempt crying – no one likes mascara running down your pretty little face now, so go do what you’ve known all your life, because it’s all you know and of course we can’t forget that it’s your life you’re talking about.
Yeah I’ve seen you whine about your waistline, blubbery whale-like thighs, “ohmygod I’m sooo fat”, and you not being able to fit into those great skimpy jeans! You chew on this gum in daily motion, perpetually living with a dictator that tells you what’s hot and what’s not – needing to lose those pounds because that will really really sincerely make you a better person.
I believe that we’re really living in the fairytale, because we coerce ourselves the romantic notions one ought to have: boy and girl, complications involving emo punk-rock music and weeks of crying and depriving sleep to reach the end when you finally get together, you have a “little miss emo” labelled right across your chest because you’re convinced that’s the right thing to do and we haven’t even reach the paramount of it all! The breakup. Climatic point of the whole quadratic equation (we compare love to maths equation all the time), we believe all we need from love is the excessive caress and quality time; intimacy that will make love between dear ol’ Romeo and Juliet all the less mundane. Afterall, they died 5 days after falling in love. No wonder it’s the greatest tragic love story of all time.
Also on the top of the list: someone who showers surprises out of nowhere just to gauge that extra fluid of happiness and then when you go home and wallow in the delight of it and think that the “i love you forever” is true because all that determination will drive you straight into an asylum. Because we live in the upscale metropolis, we hasten our paces even more, enriching our elegant strides, put on our best coats and dresses (oh daaaah-ling just where did you get that gorgeeeous dress?) and suit up.
Buzzing in and out of these conversations we simmer ourselves in, adding condiments on the way, it makes everything all the more interesting. Sometimes we do it so naturally we think this is our true element because it makes it so much easier and less effort to put in other things.
And that’s what makes you a bitch. But who cares about that when we’re talking about how good you will look in the Topshop mirror and spending money on that overpriced top when you know that the manufacturing workers get less than 1% of that beautiful brandished cloth you drape on those sexy curves. Or throw a rampage fit when your favourite Forever 21 store don’t stock your XXXXXXS size (even if you’re far from S because you’re soooo fat, remember?) because Miss Popular has gotten the last piece but because she’s your fashion icon, you forgive her. We can’t forget the times and glory when you got your first Guess bag now can we! Those intricate “G’s” just refreshed your whole appeal and whatmore with those adorable strappy 50-inch heels from Vincci? But then you realise there’s still the queen we all idolise, the one who truly reigns with utmost power, the one armed with Gucci and loo-vee vooh-tohn trinklets and kill with her Manolo Blahniks and Jimmy Choo’s sashaying through her crowd of minions.
What’s left is that we know all we need now is a perfect image to suit that demure looking face and ass. Oh, not to mention breasts. We can’t forget that eh?
I trust that in everyone, we have the Everything-We-Need-To-Know-To-Survive 101 handbook embedded in us. Some people just decide to read it and put it to use, some people don’t care and some people just choose to burn that book.
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