X is wearing that ridiculous alice hairband today, the one that conveys a horrid naivety that appalls those with a taste for irony. I think that's why I like her. Or maybe not; I've kind of given up trying to work out the answer. On her face is slapped an expression even she couldn't begin to explain, so god help the rest of us. Maybe she has missed a lecture. I stumble swearing over something outside her door - she's left her Doc Martens outside again, as though she expects them to be fucking cleaned or something. Everyone but Y hates her. No skin off her nose, fortunately.
Look, don't bother trying to hide her, she's not there. Somebody else could and has done it better. X unconcerned slaps on the favoured paleface: it so current right now. This is followed by the very latest permanent, which she has died a rather sick mix of salt and pepper colours that were laughable even in the eighties. The outdatedness adds to her already considerable old ladyness, generously adding to the nightmare of her personality what seems to be her own personal take on some sort of karmic cluelessness. Same applies to the pair of orange leggings that are too baggy around the arse and look like pyjamas. She can't even reach the gate at the end of the scrappy front garden without encouraging a vague sense of hatred. Even the neighbourhood cats turn away, disgusted.
This girl was reported dead in jest one monday during maths class by two morons called Robert and Mick. She had a daughter of six.
The compulsory twink associated with their little 'scene' looks around for scraps of paper on the floor, embarrassed. The house was empty. Never mind a little bit of hate, knowing it's all a game really isn't helping. I go to the bathroom and remove the strips of dope from the cigarettes before I sell the stupid pseudo cynical bastard his pathetic attempts at rebellion.
Look, don't bother trying to hide her, she's not there. Somebody else could and has done it better. X unconcerned slaps on the favoured paleface: it so current right now. This is followed by the very latest permanent, which she has died a rather sick mix of salt and pepper colours that were laughable even in the eighties. The outdatedness adds to her already considerable old ladyness, generously adding to the nightmare of her personality what seems to be her own personal take on some sort of karmic cluelessness. Same applies to the pair of orange leggings that are too baggy around the arse and look like pyjamas. She can't even reach the gate at the end of the scrappy front garden without encouraging a vague sense of hatred. Even the neighbourhood cats turn away, disgusted.
This girl was reported dead in jest one monday during maths class by two morons called Robert and Mick. She had a daughter of six.
The compulsory twink associated with their little 'scene' looks around for scraps of paper on the floor, embarrassed. The house was empty. Never mind a little bit of hate, knowing it's all a game really isn't helping. I go to the bathroom and remove the strips of dope from the cigarettes before I sell the stupid pseudo cynical bastard his pathetic attempts at rebellion.
