“But anyway,” she says as she takes a sip of her Southern Comfort. “I wish Pauline Hanson were still running. I’d so vote for her.”
Fragments of smudged eyeliner rest on her excessively bronzed cheek. There’s foundation on her Monroe. I can see it. Her face is doused in an unnaturally amber glow, which runs all the way down, stopping in a perfect line that sits just below her chin. Her hair extensions don’t quite match the colour of her real hair, which is choppy and dead from all her previous bleaching. Her blouse is two sizes too small, but she wears it as reassurance that she is petite enough for generic trendy clothes. She isn’t. And she subconsciously acknowledges this by draping a three-quarter sleeved jacket over herself. It’s too hot for a jacket, but she hates her arms enough to disregard the heat. She looks more clown-like than glamorous, but I don’t have the heart to tell her. Not after she’s tried this hard. I can just imagine her now, alone in her bedroom. Applying layer after layer of disguise – always hopeful that nobody will see her for who she really is.
“I never take off my makeup,” I recall her previous confession.
“Not even when you go to bed?”
“Not even when I go to bed. I couldn’t bear the thought of my family seeing me without it on.”
I am doubtful of her reasoning. I’ve known her long enough to witness the self loathing developing – eventually encompassing her soul. The only person she’s hiding from is herself.
“Pauline Hanson?!” I am taken aback slightly. “But she’s a racist cow!”
“Yeah but I hate all those boat people. I mean, you chose to live in that country – get over it and stop trying to come to mine.”
I decide against trying to sway her opinion. She is not the kind of person who responds to facts. I realize how ugly she is on the inside, and suddenly all her insecurities seem appropriately placed. I no longer feel the pull to alert her to her running makeup, her more than skin-tight clothing. The fact that one of her hair extensions is falling out. Because I realize that her undesirable appearance is an accurate representation of her inner makings.
So why am I even friends with this girl?!
- Him: That girl that just left was really hot. Bit masculine though.
- Me: You think so?
- Him: Yeah. D'you think she used to be a man?
- Me: I don't think so. But HEY, what if she was like "I wanna fuck you so hard, but I should tell you, I used to be a man." Would ya do it?
- Him: No no no, I don't think so. I couldn't.
- Me: Why not?
- Him: Because that's not me. I don't like that.
- Me: Ah, okay.
- Him: ...
- Me: And, you know... You're also married.
- Him: Oh yeah!
- Him: ....
- Him: Please don't tell my wife.
I constantly thank God for leather pants.
- Him: Would you ever date a full-on beefcake?
- Me: Uhhh probably not. Those guys look like they could beat me up, and I don't like that.
- Him: So you'd wanna date someone that you could beat up?!
- Me: I never said that!
- Him: You didn't have to - I've seen pictures of William Beckett.