Porcelain

        Porcelain. That’s what she is; flawless porcelain. Flawless porcelain highlighted blonde and covered in logos like a walking, talking billboard. She’s sporting large sunglasses and icy pink lip gloss, her lips forming hollow words at the Blackberry connected to her ear. Her figure is frightful. I can count her ribs, yet her tits are far from lacking any kind of nutrients. They’re the kind that never sag made of mock confidence and undeserved attention just like the rest of her. Her large Louis Vuitton purse is swaying frantically as she uses her hands to talk. She has designer everything from her shoes to her glasses; they all have a name attached to them. Poor idiot girl; a classic example of the beauty myth’s victim. Probably doesn’t even know her own name; she’s got so many others overpowering her.
        When did “Who are you wearing” become a more important question than “Who are you and what makes you special”? Powder and plastic don’t craft beauty; they concoct lies. She’s all I see on TV and movies, in magazines and shopping malls; it makes me sick. I want to punch her in that flat little stomach of hers. Maybe break a protruding rib or four. I want to rip off her Christian Dior sunglasses and make her stomp on them with her Versace stilettos. I want to rip her highlights out by the roots and yell “Who’s hot shit now, bitch?” But I don’t. Instead I walk up to her with a charming smile and an innocent aura as though looking at her doesn’t evoke hatred and disgust in the pit of my stomach.
        “Excuse me.” I lean in close to her unoccupied ear and tap her shoulder lightly. She whirls around glaring at me as if I’ve just shattered her entire world and I will be subjected to her wrath in T-minus ten seconds. I put my hands up in surrender and smile charismatically at her. She goes slack jawed and all-but drops her phone, just as I expected. She tells her friend she’ll call her back and hangs up quickly.
        “Hi,” she mutters dumbfounded. Looking me up and down she regains her composure and adjusts her attitude. “What do you want?” She asks raising an eyebrow. “I was on the phone before you rudely interrupted me.”
        I pretend to recoil a bit at the edge in her voice. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry, I didn’t notice.” I furrow my eyebrows in mock worry and tilt my head down and to the side a bit like a puppy that’d just gotten caught going through the trash.
        She melts right into the palm of my hand like a Hershey bar only lacking the grace and appeal. “Oh. It’s okay.” And it is. “Did you need something?”
        I point at her various shopping bags from expensive stores. “It’s my sister’s birthday soon and she loves expensive brand name clothes. You seem to have very good taste so I thought that maybe you could help me find something that she’d like as my taste in designer clothes is lacking a bit.” I should win an Oscar for this. “If you’re busy, it’s okay. I guess I could ask someone else.” I look around to emphasize my threat.
        “Oh! No! I’m not busy at all.”