Mama

She's either stupid as shit or especially crafty.

It's pre-Pixar Disneycute the way she looks up at everyone all doe-eyed. Everything that flows out of her cherry lips is a question, her head tilts gently while those eyes follow you until she gets an answer. Whether she absorbs is anybody's guess. For those that aren't swayed by aesthetic, she catches you on the back foot with upward inflection, a pert Plato of Sydneytown. Her eyeliner is bottom-heavy, which serves only to remind you that she is so incredibly new to this. The fondue bubbles and bursts in those eyes, serving as a warning that her soul is liquid fire, ready to devour all and sundry. You'd be a fool to take her for any less than she looks.

Oh! To be that green! To be that eighteen...

Tonight she's dressed to kill. A perfect pair of 501s were sacrificed to the God of Clubs to bolster her sly campaign to make herself Queen, cut just below the arse to show off assets the world didn't pay heed to the week before. The denim clings like the first fish caught by a boy on a hot summer's day at high noon. Desperation, a gasping that you can't help but watch. You can almost feel a tangible apathy, a lump in your throat that makes you want to beat the little fucker to death.

If it weren't for those thighs... God damn it, the girl's got pins.

The horrible thing is that she is just like every woman in the world. There are dimples. There are ripples. Bless her highest heels and cotton ankle-socks, she has hail damage. Granted, the damage is on par with taking a piss in the ocean, but it made me smile because she was the brave soul who took to working the Front Door under harsh streetlight and neon adverts plugging huge dicks and cheap tricks. Which makes it worse for the rest of us out there who aren't bouncy, wiggly, giggly Tens.

Of course, I immediately like her. She has been nothing but syrup since the moment I met her, and she takes notes. While I'm not surprised that she's no stranger to self-promotion and talking all things her, I am surprised that she knows that my amusement is held with more vital conversation than the labels she's wearing or the colour of her shadow. I am surprised that she starts talking about the property market, and am even more surprised that she knows her shit. I am not surprised that she supports property investment - but - only if mum and dad can front the deposit because God be damned if she can't have her social life and enjoy it. She reads the newspaper every day to keep in touch but her world consists of the city at night, the North Shore by day, and she wishes she could give the farmers some money but she needs to keep up herself. She has rules strictly laid out with a furrowed brow resolution and (often*) a pointed finger that both become as flexible as her lithe and supple frame when plied with alcohol, which is far more often than she'd ever admit to beyond a playful wink.

She doesn't know it but with what she's got, she's got the whole world sussed. She'll rely on those milky flanks until she finds a roid-powered hero who'll fuck what little brilliance she has and she will live her beautiful life.

That fucking bitch.







*Sobriety is depressing. Word-for-word, the conversations over, over, over, over, over...