Anne Frank to Bridget Jones
the downward scrunchie spiral
Its Sunday and here I am at work. How dare they make me
toil on the sabbath.
Community service lady is sweeping up the parking lot. Shes
been doing this for months. I wonder what she did to
deserve this. I would say something involving drugs, but
thats too obvious. Im leaning towards fraud. She tried to
claim someone elses life. But really, can you blame her?
She is about 35. Her hair is a horrible vomitey rusty gold
colour and the texture of steel wool, no doubt a habitual
victim of DIY bleaching kits. Its pulled back in a
scrunchie. Of course. Its always a scrunchie. At the top of
her forehead is a hideous pouf of bangs. Navy blue nylon
nike jacket circa 1992. A drab colour of grey compliments
the atrocity of sweat pants so well. Her shoes like her
life were pristine and white at one time long ago.
In her late teens and early twenties she was at the height
of culture, only she was too absorbed in her own menial
dramas to realize it. At a certain age an exponential force
started driving her looks into the dirt. She starts to
wonder where all the people telling her how hot she looked
went. And as her beauty and subsequent status decline, she
tries to emulate what was working for her at her peak.
Oversized sweatshirts and tapered jeans. Ratty hair and a
thick coat of fuck me makeup.
And with her beauty diminished she has nothing to fall back
on. She probably has a few kids and a restraining order
against wifebeater wearing on and off again boyfriend who
brags about his appearance on the tv show "cops." She
probably lives in a squalid apartment reeking with the
thick warm smell of old velveeta and sweat. The place is
litered with toys with missing parts and half burned
candles. There is a bookshelf in the living room where she
proudly displays her beloved collection of beenie babies.
This is a cautionary tale. It all starts with that one