Red Lipstick & Plain White Tee Shirts

Happy? Sad? Lovely? Mad? Wherever there is a question, the answer is clear; just put on more red lipstick.

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Permalink Elegant Pain:  A Short Story


“If they write that I’m naked in this scene, I did not write the scene…And I feel in order to be a great actress you need to be naked in all ways.  Emotionally and whatever.  Be willing to take your clothes off.  Because in life we have romance and I don’t know people who have sex under the covers” – Paz De La Hurta, ‘The Wildest Woman in Hollywood’,  The Evening Standard


Oil and salt rocks help to reveal a new layer of her skin, bruised and sun kissed, buffing it to get that New Car reveal.  Hair blonded to a wire, poking out of the bark brown pieces. YSL mascara pulls eyelashes to fine winking-eye baby doll perfection.  Grapefruit flavored lip balm knawing off of lower lip.

She wears her long sweater like a cape, Wonder Woman traded her patented red spandex bottom in for distressed cut off shorts.  Running running running up to his door, she jumps and wraps her bruise covered legs around him, pulls his soul from his mouth, breathes ethanol fumes from her nostrils into his, like giving CPR in a dream, all things floaty and disjointed and wavy; that blind, finger-grasping thing.

He reminds her of the first time they fucked.  How she told him to fuck her harder, how they fell out of rhythym, how she pushed him off, slapped him across the face. 

She is feeling bad, she can tell her nervous energy was keeping him from settling into a quiet nothing sleep; a blackout drunk kind of sleep, where you just sort of wake back up, and although you have not gone anywhere the scene is usually a different shade of either day or night.  Tequilla Sunrises and Blue Moons, Jamison at any hour.

She pulls on his white undershirt, bends over on tip toes to pour water in the kitchen, mid morning dew-blue color floods through the glass filled 3/4th of the way up.  She feels another bruise capsize on her forearm, where he had grabbed her, thrown her into the corner of the room, locked her gaze, legs, grabs her by the neck, low nips and growled direction.  The ridges from his incisors dimpling the skin near her clavical, broken cappliaries scattered like black holes in the evening sky, just another emptiness the universe keeps blind to the eye, yet energy to pull from your soul.

But still, she dreams; deep and hazy and full of the languid joys of a warm painkiller on its edges.  

For some reason, her dreams are always tangent on that pain shes avoiding, so fully honest in its direction to choke her breath out with its bare hands, never pretending to be something its not.

It would seem, ‘pain is pain is pain’ may not be the truth.  Perhaps pain is in the eye of the beholder, no matter the general nature of its definition.
Permalink If I could read my insides by way of water colors, magazine clippings, a poignant article by Cat Marnell, and other forms of media mashed together on paper after leaving my job, this is what it would look like.
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Permalink naimabarcelona:

Tom Ford