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                                                                            September, 9                                                                            DamnvilleDear Dad,Are you reading this holding something liquid and fragile in your hand? YOU BETTER PUT IT DOWN FIRST. I’m about to swipe you off your feet with completely, utterly ridiculous news.Okay, *cracks her knuckles* You are safely footed, right? In a battle horse stance, I hope. Right-o. Coz guess what, I AM A MODEL! (You still breathing?)It all started with Agnieszka having her *BRILLIANT IDEA* of getting rich and famous by simply being pretty. Then Amazons jumped into the warrior model campaign to get her into the spotlight. We hunted for agents on Dress Show Live in La Terra the other day and one obviously blind one took my insect persona for walking fashion and style.I mean, shiver me thimbles, me, a model?? The closest I ever got to painting faces and dressing up in anything other than my old jeans was in drama lessons. When I played an aspen tree.Ma threatened to give those jeans to charity but was too afraid the poor kids would run away screaming. She so misses the point! My jeans are NOT GOING ANYWHERE. They are my cosmic mega soulmate that stands it all for the sake of our sacred union. I don’t give two hoofs how ugly they sag and fray and people start accusing me of being a LESBIAN BOY. Inner beauty is all that matters, right? RIGHT? So unless they break in two on my very ass, I stand by and fend off the pink glittery wand of fashion with my wild jeansed leg. Ha. Ha!Well, not anymore. I got hit-n-run by real blimey AGENT, promising a holy grail in my pockets and a label of a world beauty stuck to my forehead. For the record, Cap, it’s not really my looks with buckets of Ma’s stupendous ginger DNA, but Oliver’s idea of an alien mantis on the magazine cover. He aches for bloody revolution crushed at the entire yoghurt fed baby-doll industry of fashion. Oliver is “a model minstrel” as he introduced himself to Ma, “in search of extraordinary poems among the dull prose of mob.” And Ma said I was rather a kids’ rhyme coz I was fifteen FOR THE LOVE OF GOD. What did he even think about!“My daughter is NOT selling her dignity to your devil’s magazines!” she cried. Then Oliver said how much the devil pays for that. She blinked and, in a perfectly steady voice, asked to add a few numbers. “As a cherry on top of the cake,” she smiled. “Not for Carmina, of course. She’s on a strict diet now, aren’t you, sweetie?” Drop me dead.You can’t say NO to Ma and keep the planet turning, so there I was, sitting in front of the mirror trying hard not to breathe. The makeover lady bustled around like a busy bee while I did what I do worst — held still. She glued the second layer of lashes on top of mine and shaped my hair into a fence-on-fire blast, so now I looked like that crazy club Groot from Guardians of the Galaxy.“Well, at least they didn’t dress you in bikini,” Hecta cheered me up with her broken brow line.We vexed my Christmas tree outfit in the mirror and cracked with laughter. The glittery balls and tinsel pinned to the emerald ruffles tingled alone, and I rattled like one giant baby toy. Then, more busy bees rushed in and our faces dropped, coza) Hecta was supposed to be my over-eighteen y. o. chaperone, i. e. so deadpan serious milk goes bad in miles around. Andb) they brought the shoes. Blimey. Not even shoes, NINE INCH FEET WEAPONS!“How do I walk in THIS!” I cried as I ventured a few crab steps, “How does anyone walk in this?”“People dance on the rope too,” Hecta said.“It’s not helping, Heck. The only way I can get in these on camera is to hop it all on my head. Do you think they can give me Kung Fu stuff for balance?”No chance. They didn’t even give me A MINUTE to totter it out. Scooped me up like spruce from the placid wilderness and threw under the fireworks of Christmas tohubohu. The photographer was a bossy black woman with a ferocious crop of purple hair, a tanker body and the voice of an organ. I wasn’t the only one tested for the set. I figured out other victims with drag queen faces, and they all looked like Purple Hair Bulldog had sniffed their fear off and bit half their souls for that.I toddled out to the spot where the people with tablets pushed me, with the face of a spartan soldier going for the battle to die in. Oliver thumbed me up from behind the photographer, and Hecta cried, “Break a leg!” from behind the painted clouds curtain. Which wasn’t as SUPPORTING as bloody PROPHETIC coz the next very moment I bashed into one of those one-eyed lamps on a leg and knocked it down. My Christmas tree dress wobbled like a ship dinging alone while the entire fashion host in the room yelled a yell of a burning jungle.“What the hell is she doing?” Photographer cried like I wasn’t even there. “Get her the umbrella!”The umbrella swept into my hand sharpish. The dude on a hybrid of a tractor-helicopter machine switched the fan on and it farted tinsel on top of my Groot head.“Move, Christmas, MOVE!” Photographer commanded in a voice of a giant crushing Olympians.I gazed around in search of a living Christmas, then realized it was me and, “HOLLY SHIT, this is real.” I hit my best tribal butt dance with a jolly Tarzan cry coz my heart drummed for it, stilettos begged for it and coz hell knows what else models do there. By the thundering gaggle from the fake-faced girls, I knew it was a blasting success, so it struck me as a complete surprise why Miss Shooter stopped clicking her camera and goggled back mouth open. “What the f…”Then I had this stark *BRILLIANT IDEA* of doing Kung Fu form and lashed my leg up, wacked another lamp and ended up on the floor with it in an amorous embrace. Everyone crushed to pieces again about killing lamps and kid models. Makeover bees buzzed around and Hecta helped me stand up, not entirely the same person I was before, but desperate to kick these shoes back to where they belong — bloody CIRCUS.“What’s your name, Christmas?” Photographer boated up to me, hands on hips.“It’s Carm…”“Listen up, girl. This is a speedy and serious business, okay? We’re not nursing crackers here. You need to be quick and creative, but serious.”“I’d love to, ma’am,” I said and blew a clod of tinsel off my eye, “but these shoes.”“What about shoes?” she stared at my feet and probably saw comfy sneakers instead.“Well, er…” Think! Think quick. “Christmas trees are barefoot, ma’am.”She eyed my shoes again and said, “All right. If that saves the rest of my lamps, take them off. And show me your true self.”Blimey, I just did, and she said I was crackers. Okay, maybe I wasn’t that convincing. I threw stilettos off and took my battle stance. This is gonna be fun. I jumped and rolled around the stage, kicking and punching and yelling HIYAAA! flashing with my emerald shorts like the flag of freedom. I totally killed it and send it all to Kung Fu heaven. So ha! When I slapped the fist at my palm and bowed, closing my performance, nobody moved or laughed. Not even Photographer who failed to take a single shot.“Well?” I asked panting. “Can I go now?”They said DEFINITELY. And never. EVER. Come back. Yep, that was the end of my illustrious career, Dad, and drop me dead how lucky I am to get away with my life. Though it was a little sad too when Oliver cried all over my “poetic” hair and quite successfully watered my Groot.“Do you think it means I’m useless?” I asked Hecta on the bus back home when the dust settled and I sensed like my Shaolin power screwed all up again. And she said into her e-book, “You kidding me? That was a phenomenal scoop. They crapped their pants at your Seven Star Fist.”“But was I pretty, at least?” Maybe, I did miss something.Hecta lowered her phone and stared at me. “Dude, you looked like a baby whore.”Nope. Nothing missed. What’s the point of being pretty and photogenic if you can’t kick your leg? I would rather play actual trees and in proper pants and be ugly all I like coz it’s like my natural, original sin born before the Big Bang turned chaos into order and divided all to pretty and not.The only trouble is… I need to give Ma the bills for broken lamps. And live.Fingers crossed.                                                                                  Your model Skipper -- source link
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