------- Fresh from the oven, mom's homemade cookies. Chocolate chip, with a hint of vanilla lingering in the air. "... I've got news darlin', daddy and I are getting divorced." Oh, I could hear myself perfectly. Chocolate flying outta my mouth, my Chanel lipstick violated with cookie crumbs. "WHAT?!" It's official. My Gucci bag hates me. ------ Lol.
Lol. XD ----- "Oh for the love of God hurry up!" Here I am, texting to my dearest boyfriend, Denis. It was better than sitting, listening to my mom drool on and on about her damned divorce party. The reason she wanted to get divorced? "Your dad forgot our anniversary." Blonde moment. My mom, age 37, lips smacked with that devilish red lipstick, Maxfactor. Blonde hair with gold highlights, tied in a bun with dark purple Dior mascara that screamed out "FUCK ME" to any man that crossed her path. Cheeks? Smeared with cucumbers and a moisturizing cream mask for a bueautificarion procedure. Smack it all off and BAM. Pink blush, Shisheido. My mom. A living reicarnation of non-virgin mary. In fact, she resembles her perfectly. The opposite of innocent catholic virgin mary, BAM. Red prada heels and perfectly defined cheekbones. This is it guys, it's WOMANZILLA. In 3D. ---- "Aw Helll no!" My dad. Stereotypical metrosexual businessman. I can see it perfectly. In his Marc Jacobs shoes and Ralph Lauren cologne. Or was it Ralph Lauren shoes and Marc Jacobs cologne? Either one, he looked like a modern wrestler in a formal spandex suit. My eyes. They burn. ... What have I got myself into? ------- Great. Frankenstein and his bride, or soon to be ex bride to be exact. Heartless redhead? My dad would pass that test. No offense to redheads, I'm one myself. Ginger, to be exact. Byooootaful orange hair, that's what my stylist would say. "DAAARRRLLLIN'! Your byooootaful hair just kills me. Gorgeous! Don't let those bullies fool yew haun, I've got customers KILLING for that shade of red. Naw, let's saih... Darlin', whatbout this gorgeous bun?" She crawls on nonstop, her stereotypical stylist accent getting on my nerves. The only thing in common we share is our ashen grey Shisheido eye shadow, perfect combination for my black mascara. You know what they say, Cougars. And that's exactly what my mom is, a cougar. ... Her prey? My dad's bank account. -----
--------- All revealed in due time they say, due time when? Right now my folded legs and butt are sat on my boyfriend's lap, his strong build mesmerizing the ladies on the street. Of course, my overlypossessive self gets the better of me and I automagically leer at dem bitches checking out his six packs. As if. Until pigs can fly, they're stucm with their morbidly obese husbands. "I heard your parents got divorced?" I role my eyes. Everybody knows. My mom's framing my dad for dating some bimbo he picked up in an alley. And that bimbo's my aunt Helen, brown bob with spiky red highlights, cheap ass plum lipstick and some punky hooker outfit, appealing only to those with no proper taste. "Yep." "Sucks." I can only nod in approval. Walking to the beach, all eyes on us, it was like Brad Pitt in his young age before his fugly man looks got to him and Paris Hilton before she went to jail making out. It was just not right. And now some Lindsey Lohan bitch has the nerve to walk them toned legs up to us. That gingerly brunette had the nerve to stick her nose at me, as if she was a comparison. Sure she had nice legs and a nice butt, but flat chest? Turn off. And trust me, her torso screamed "REJECTION" at every man in the beach. Flat as it could be. Looking at it closely I thought I caught an inward cave carving at her visible ribcage. Who is she? Some woman with boobs that seemed physically impossible who wanted to starve herself? ----- Gettin' late.