The “i” in die


The club is packed. You lean against the wall but not too much because you spent too long on your hair to mess it up before midnight. Your eyes scan the room and you see a girl wearing the latest Fendi. You hope no one notices your bag from ebay. You order a cranberry vodka though you don’t want one but you drink it because you don’t want to seem like a loser standing without a drink. You pretend you’re enjoying yourself. You pretend you’re checking the phone. You pretend you’re moving to the music. You pretend you don’t notice how you blow the smoke out of your mouth and the way your cancer stick is sitting lightly between your fingers. You pretend to think when you pout your Lancome lips. You pretend you’re not pretending.

They are late. You knew you should have spent the extra 10 minutes on your hair. You decide to go to the toilet to check if its still pretty. You go into the cubicle eventhough you don’t need to go because you don’t want people to know you’re as vain as they are. You count the seconds before you flush. You walk out and go to the sink next to the girl who has bad skin. She makes your skin look good, you think to yourself. You’re pleased with your new foundation from Mac. It makes you look like a natural beauty. Your hair is pulled back because everyone tells you it looks better that way because it best accentuates your cheekbones. You want ones like Kate Moss. 

You smell of Ralph Lauren romance when you flick your hair and it reminds you of that skinny model in the ad. You think sometimes you look like her. You smile to yourself. Your lips is coated with the red cinnamon medicated balm that makes it swell up so you have bee-stung looking lips like Jolie. Your eyes, which man have told you are beautiful, is curled with Shu Umera and lined with Bobby Brown charcoal 06. Your skirt is short and makes your legs look longer than they are. You think its worth the 400 you paid for it because you get compliments. Your top has a V shape cut on the front to make you look like you have cleavage. Laura the sales assistant told you it looks ‘fab’ on you – that she has one at home too. You believe it. You buy enhancements. You wish you could afford breast implants. You wish your dad owned hotels too but he doesn’t, so you buy acceptance in a box.

You spend the rest of your night with your friends who arrived half an hour late because one of them couldn’t decide which ear rings to wear. You say its okay because who would want an accesory to ruin the whole ‘look’? You spend the rest of the night laughing and giggling with your friends. You are absolutely aware of yourself and you secretly wish someone is admiring your poise from far. You feel a twinge of satisfaction when the guy your friends think is cute, offers to buy you a drink. You flirt with him. Your friends look on and giggle but you know they hate you because they wish it was them making him look them up and down. He looks at your breasts and you pretend you don’t notice. You don’t mind because he can’t help it. You make a mental tick of things you like on him. He dresses smart. You like that color on him. His polo shirt is body hugging. You can tell he works out. You imagine what he would be like in bed. You imagine his finger in your mouth. You remember that article on Cosmo and you look at his hands. You look at the watch he is wearing. You want him to be able to afford you nice things.

He takes out his phone for your number. You’re surprised its an old Nokia. The screen is green and the numbers on the button has faded down. You think what’s wrong with this picture. You make excuses for him, that he lost his new phone or its being fixed. You are embarassed for him so you tell him you will miss call him instead. You tell him to put his phone away. By the end of the night, you are drunk and grinding him on the dance floor. You think you two make a good looking couple. Your friends think so too. You sense that he is getting turned on by your pelvis against his and you tease him. You lift your hands up and run it through your body as Kenya West tells you you’re a gold digger. Your friends have left. You need a ride home. He offers. You accept. He screws you and never calls. You become a topic of interest amongst your friends. They think you’re a slut. You think they are just jealous. Besides, he probably has a fear of commitment. That’s why he hasn’t called. You thank Cosmo for teaching you all you know about man.

Sometimes you wake up in the morning and you forget where you are, who you are, what you are. You feel empty and you know it but you pray to God no one see’s through your wardrobe laced with insecurities and fear.

You do not exist. Your handbag has lied to you. You are not of upper class. You are not unique. You are not special. You are just the majority of people who think it is good to want to control everything. You have turned into a consumer of fear. You fear people judge you and not see the real you. You’re right. They probably do because you gave them the opportunity to through your fear;

Your fear of not fitting in so you try to follow whatever people in magazines are wearing so you can look like a common man. You wonder why you don’t look like them.

Your fear of not being good enough for your peers because you can’t afford the LV bag from the 2006 winter catalogue and they all seem to have one.

Your fear of earning less than your peers so you eat less to buy that skirt, pair of heels, long lasting limited edition Dior lip gloss or whatever makes you look better because you can’t stomach being anything less than looking like success on heels.

Your fear of feeling empty so you feed your fear until you become a victim of consumerism.

Your fear of dealing with real issues in the world so you deal with the tragic world of tabloid.

Your fear of rejection from people you love so you love the consolation of the things you buy.

Let go of your fear. Because if you don’t, you will never really die because you never really exist.

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7 comments

  1. i loike this entry…will you tuck me into bed every night and tell me bedtime stories with elements of truth in it..gimme my cookies and milk and not force me to brush my teeth after xheartsx

  2. Bambino · · Reply

    I’ll cradle you like a baby! Feed you alcohol and smokes before I tuck you in – if you come back to Melbo!:(Miss you luv!

  3. This must be one of my favourite posts!

  4. Anonymous · · Reply

    Suppose, you are right…people do fear, hence the reason behind why they succumb to mediocrity. Did you ever think that maybe, it’s the sight of a stylishly attractive female whom surrounds herself with just as aesthetically pleasing people, that truly puts one off?You might even be the cause for those out there to feel this “fear” that you mention oh so much.Maybe not amongst the Barbie- type but definitely amongst insecure lesbians. You have this air about you, as your photos show and you definitely know your fashion. I’m assuming because you admire it rather than using it as a means to blend in or stand out.There is one thing I definitely know, this entry must have come from experience. The basis of knowledge is through an essential experience. There is no need for YOU to feel fear…because others probably fear you. It’s a social cycle.Everyone fears what he or she wants or wants to be. I guess maybe, I somewhat fear you. I might just be the insecure lesbian I mentioned earlier…(yee haw)! If I ever met you in person, I would look, tilt my head and wonder if 1. You are taken, 2. You’re a lesbian, 3. Someone, like you, could ever look my way (that is, if you’re a lesbian) – the fear turns to shallowness, which is shrugged off by acting cynical.Of course, isn’t that what one always fears? Not being known for whom they truly are, but also getting to know one and not liking what they found? Sadly, I believe I contradicted myself.Steph 🙂

  5. Bambino · · Reply

    That’s a really long entry. But yes I am a lezza and yes I am taken and yes I can be shallow. My gf thinks you’re Debbie. Is your real name Deb by any chance??Tersh 🙂

  6. Anonymous · · Reply

    Someone needs to get her own blog hor?haha.I fear nothing!

  7. Anonymous · · Reply

    Mockery mirrors itself.

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