Fucking Falsies

God fucking damnit. Mia pulled the false lashes off for the second time. Glue made fine stringy lines before snapping and sticking to her eyelid, mixing with mascara. She was not off to a good start. Still, at least she wasn’t in a rush. There was exactly one hour before the shoot and an Uber to pick her drinking ass up. She had danced this tango before and knew it was a swirling dervish of long and immense suffering. Mia’s fingers picked at her eyelid and came away with what looked like gray boogers. She wiped them on her sweatpants and thought, Gross. This shit was ridiculous. But when she could blink and cause a hurricane, it would all be worth it.

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The Entertainer

Kris looked around at white tiles, working hard to control her breathing. I’m fine, she repeated to herself. I’m fine. But she wasn’t fine. She could feel vomit pushing its way up her throat. Pressure built mercilessly behind her eyes before exploding in a spray of coke-colored chunks. Her body heaved as it violently rejected rum, hot wings, and curdled looking ranch. A kaleidoscope of regurgitated, half-digested regret swirled before her eyes as she leaned over cold porcelain and gasped for air. She heard knocking at the door and ignored it. Ocupado, bitch.

On the next fateful breath she inhaled the tiniest fleck of something. It made its way straight to the back of her throat with tickling fingers triggering another round of heaving, coughing, gasping, but Kris couldn’t catch her breath. She knew her eyes were probably going to pop out of her head and splash into the bowl at any minute, bloodshot and covered in tears. As her ribs seemed to crack with the effort of separating air from soupy liquid, one thought sprang to her mind: you can drown in a teaspoon of water. She felt bad for the poor bastard that would find her dead body, forever kneeling at a white throne.

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Intrusive Thoughts

They stood by the pool table and Meg ran her finger over the green felt. She wondered how long it had been there; how many beers had been spilt across its surface despite the laminated signs taped to each side: NO DRINKS ON POOL TABLE!!!

Alan hadn’t listened. His glass sat a few inches from her hand, and Meg thought about reaching over, hooking her finger over the rim, and soaking the table in Johnnie Walker. He would be so mad. Alan’s drink of choice, watch, shoes, and cellphone might’ve said he could afford it, but Meg knew that was all keeping up with the Jones’ bullshit.

Meg. She liked the way her nail polish looked while she traced lines into the stained fabric.

Meg. The green made her red fingertips look bright and tacky, like Christmas lights up in July. She thought of home.

“Meg! Damn it. Are you even listening?”

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