Pretend like you know what it’s about, little girl.
Quote Anais Nin. Quote Erica Jong.
Be in love with yourself. Fuck the camera.
Be drunk with it. The fascination.
It’s mutual. It’s poetic.
It’s a beautiful holy fucking thing.
You glow with power.
It isn’t just the notches on your designer handbag strap.
No, there’s something ineffable there,
something more precious than your stunning
command of the English language,
your giddy potty humor and zest for virtual hedonism.
Pretend like you aren’t another boring
self-absorbed bitch choking on the smoke
of all those burned bridges.
Pretend like your cunt is the cunt
that will eradicate all ennui from his life,
salve his stings,
make him see angels and Jesus
where before he saw shit stains and garbage.
Nobody else exists. Oh, that’s a new story.
I haven’t heard that song before!
Nobody else on the planet,
just the two of you
in your sweet little bubble
so high above the rest of us
it will never
be popped.
Bow, chick. Bow.
Rose petals at your feet
and a simmering century
of applause.
It isn’t cheap. It isn’t free.
It isn’t social media.
It’s classy. It’s opera.
Oh sigh. Oh swoon.
Oh my fucking GOD!
Lust of this heft
has never before existed.
Look at the drooling dogs
lapping up
your vomit.
Fuck up huge
then pretend
like you didn’t
know this is the real thing,
not dress rehearsal.
The director has a boner
and that is all an ingenue
can ask for.