The Girl and her Marilyn Monroe Wig
The girl wore a Marilyn Monroe wig. A black satin ribbon wrapped around her brain, held down by the billions of baby shark teeth she had collected from the beach that summer. She wanted to be a blonde, even though she didn't like blonde hair. Blondes were fun, blondes were wild, blondes were blonde. The girl wore a black and white horizontally stripped t-shirt. Long-sleeved. Each black beginning interrupted the white canvas's desperation to reach the finishing hemline. A baby blue cotton candy mug, the foam from her latte created a perfectly puffed lip liner just waiting to be licked off by a lover. Geoff walked in - hips forward, each hipbone a hand for waving to a potential new friend. Geoff wore velvet golf course green khakis cuffed at the bottom to show his argil socks he had cleverly purchased from the pawnshop last weekend. He pulled out the seat facing the girl to throw his tweed jacket over the back and to sit down left ankle on right knee. Pen to paper and words to tongue, Geoff scribbled and directed directions. He got up and tapped the note three times with his purple doctor’s pen as if to set a melody into her pretty pink head. "Remember, Love." Hand, wrist, forearm, elbow, bicep, shoulder, back, collarbone. He put on his tweed armor and flew through the glass door leaving only his scribbles on the tiled table and his steaming fantasy of seeing her again. She stood up - an infinite white neck with red balloon lipstick. Eyes the color of patent leathered boots scanned the room for another set of directions, but there was none, so she left her latte to deflate on its own.
She had risen from her nightmares with two arms, two legs, two hands, two feet, two eyes, two antennas, and one black haired head. The dusty mirror awaited her good-morning inspection, as she brushed barefoot onto the bathroom marble. A yellow light hangs above her head as she looks at how she brushes her teeth, and shadows out all of her pretty parts, so that she can't see them. "It's best to not know that you're beautiful" as her father always whispered. Tucked away beneath the sink, so that no one will know, lies a golden treasure chest stuffed with black pearl eye shadow and ruby shimmer blush. The girl unfolds the stash and begins her intervention. Strawberry purple lip stain oozes over and into the valleys of her heart, calligraphy ink eyeliner clouds her nervous empty tummy, and a snow bunny white wig shields her glass skull from shattering.
The girl stubbed her toenail on the corner of a cobblestone on the street and it bled into the padding of her black loafers. But her feet were cold, so she didn't mind the sting, even if it only covered one little toe on one little foot. White mini men floated in the atmosphere that day and slipped in between the cracks and folds of the universe to wait for their lovers to beg them back home. "I wish I could sled. I know it doesn't take much skill, but I wish I had someone to sled with. I wish I had the skill to have someone to sled with." The wind was angry that day - his wife had been caught kissing the neighbor from the cabin next door - and so he cried and twitched and rushed past anyone who wanted to chat. The girls black satin ribbon unraveled herself and radiated after Mr. Wind Man, hoping to catch up, but only got caught up in a dead blueberry bush’s conversation. "I've always had the feeling that I was born to be murdered. It's sad, sure, but somebody has got to be murdered every once and awhile, right?"
Lucas always loved to bite fingers, especially her pinkies because they're the smallest and most breakable. Stanley loved to cry and scratch, especially her neck because it can't really hide unless you force it to. And daddy loved to tickle and pull, especially her hair because it's already dead and wants to be made into bird's nests. An infinite amount of her parts now lay in the clouds, adopted by the millions of mothers for the cradling of their children. The girl didn't mind anything at all really, but she did mind that her hair was born black like her eyes. "If only I could just sled down a lovely white hill once, I think I'd be warm."
"Twelve deep breathes through the nose, then take a left." The girl had only two more breaths left before she made it to where she wanted to be. In went the anticipation and out went the anxiety. In and out, in and out. Done. Not quite - right loafer over left loafer, right shoulder against Mr. Wind Man. Now done. The girls’ blackberry blood pupils shot back into their waterbeds to settle and absorb the beautiful fluorescent of the sign. "Gentlemen Prefer Blondes."
“I don't know really…I'm just sick of me and I'm tired of waking up bland and tasteless. I want someone to want to taste me. I want fun. I want to be simple, almost like I'm not there, but I will be there. For every man to look at and not want to take control, but want to smell my perfume and trace my palm lines. Like I have a secret, because I won't be me, but I'll be that better version of me to everyone else. I want my color to be inside of me. I don't want to seem sad anymore. I should be a spy, but my own spy. I'll spy on myself to see if the real me comes out and the other me will remind the real me to stop and reevaluate. 'Don't answer that question! Remember, you must look like you don't care about anyone! People find that interesting. Don’t be dumb. No one likes smart loud girls with frizz and pale skin. You can only be pale if your insides are black.’ Why do people think that I’m sad and seductive and different? Especially guys…all they can do is assume. ‘Oh look at those eyes…she must be all used up. Damaged goods. Split ends. I like that, but for all the wrong reasons. I don’t really like it. I want to use her more – destroy her because I can.’ I don’t really know, Geoff. I guess I'm just sick of me. I'm sick of my hair and I'm sick of the black eating my outsides. I really do need to meet a gentleman to take me sledding."