A short story
Discontent with the standard three hour allocated Clay Construction class at ACU, I abandon my trowl and chicken wire and endevour to hit up the infamous Burwog (Burwood) for a refreshing beverage and perhaps the odd piece of 'razzle-dazz' to boost ones fair fugz saturday night ganga attire.
Mulling round the centre, stroking items one couldnt afford...depression on the rise...I turn to exit that oh so generally mundane shop that claimed to sell pants, feeling somewhat confused as I zig zagged my way through a sea of pleather and what seemed like a Texan's dream tassle explosion. To my sheer delight the entrance was blocked by my good friend Claire... striking a pose like she was auditioning for the Madonna film clip VOGUE with her Maybeline sporting pals, Kristie and Sarah. Managing to keep the mass of masticated fruit and yogurt down, I proceeded to greet this woman whilst she simultaneous stroked her shadow... consumed in the awe and narcissism that was her. Minutes passed as the three combed my appearance with their beady unforgiving eyes, frequently persing their laquered lips whilst attempting to maintain some sort of obligatory verbal exchange. Now, I am aware that this day, like most, I had taken all of fifteen minutes to shove my three wisps of hair into some sort of doo...slammed some powder on my beak and left the house satisfied I wasn't entered Australia's Next Top Model... thinking my 'natural' look would suffice. Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps I should have emptied a bottle of ivory tinted coloured cement on my head and spent two hours perfectly structuring my lashes into symetrical black fans resembling that of a theme park gateway entrance. But alas, it was too late. Kristie ritualistical stroked her fringe ever so methodically over the circular pigmentation on her cheek. Her eyes darting side to side as she checked no one had spotted it. Sarah carried the forced conversation as Claire, closely followed by her fucked up tuff of a pony tail and her beloved shadow made their way to any sort of reflective surface for a prep talk, a motivational speech or an affirmation, no doubt. I left in a spot of bother as I recalled memories of these girls from their youths and wondered what fleecy, tasty chop-like animal had become of them.
Discontent with the standard three hour allocated Clay Construction class at ACU, I abandon my trowl and chicken wire and endevour to hit up the infamous Burwog (Burwood) for a refreshing beverage and perhaps the odd piece of 'razzle-dazz' to boost ones fair fugz saturday night ganga attire.
Mulling round the centre, stroking items one couldnt afford...depression on the rise...I turn to exit that oh so generally mundane shop that claimed to sell pants, feeling somewhat confused as I zig zagged my way through a sea of pleather and what seemed like a Texan's dream tassle explosion. To my sheer delight the entrance was blocked by my good friend Claire... striking a pose like she was auditioning for the Madonna film clip VOGUE with her Maybeline sporting pals, Kristie and Sarah. Managing to keep the mass of masticated fruit and yogurt down, I proceeded to greet this woman whilst she simultaneous stroked her shadow... consumed in the awe and narcissism that was her. Minutes passed as the three combed my appearance with their beady unforgiving eyes, frequently persing their laquered lips whilst attempting to maintain some sort of obligatory verbal exchange. Now, I am aware that this day, like most, I had taken all of fifteen minutes to shove my three wisps of hair into some sort of doo...slammed some powder on my beak and left the house satisfied I wasn't entered Australia's Next Top Model... thinking my 'natural' look would suffice. Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps I should have emptied a bottle of ivory tinted coloured cement on my head and spent two hours perfectly structuring my lashes into symetrical black fans resembling that of a theme park gateway entrance. But alas, it was too late. Kristie ritualistical stroked her fringe ever so methodically over the circular pigmentation on her cheek. Her eyes darting side to side as she checked no one had spotted it. Sarah carried the forced conversation as Claire, closely followed by her fucked up tuff of a pony tail and her beloved shadow made their way to any sort of reflective surface for a prep talk, a motivational speech or an affirmation, no doubt. I left in a spot of bother as I recalled memories of these girls from their youths and wondered what fleecy, tasty chop-like animal had become of them.
No comments:
Post a Comment