Missy Karenina

    

    It's cold out. Frosty. The garden was a white crystaline palace this morning and the beauty of winter was breathtaking - almost literally in the icy air. Who could fail to be impressed by the frosted splendour? Who could gaze upon the landscape, luminous under a clear moonlit sky and be unmoved?

 

     Missy. Missy took one look, lit her first morning cigarette and hacked up a sneering response to nature's glory, the remnants of last night's sambuca and kebab rave party still resplendant in a cascade down her neon onesie. Using a chipped, painted claw to hook the spandex out of her ample buttocks, she blew her acrid smoke into our eyes and rasped, "Fak that," and waddled back to bed.

 

     This is Missy, in all her glory. She's our pretty-perfect-party-pop-princess and she knows it. In those seconds where she leaned casually on the doorframe, she pictured herself as the romantic and luscious fragile female icon of some great Russian literary classic. Reality was never really 'a thing' for Missy.... We left her asleep, drooling over her half-spent glowsticks. She's happy. 

 

    She's Missy.....bask in the allure....