When the long list of temporary lovers runs dry, she returns to the familiar clumping of former best friends, curious as to whether or not they will still remember the person she used to be and furthermore nervous to the notion of whether or not she can still elegantly fake it for the masses. They don’t necessarily seem to notice, though, and soon it’s just like old times, only a bit more stressful on the body and mind. They’ve shifted, become engrained with environmental prospects while she has merely experimented with ideals in order to eventually give up on all available causes.
It becomes the hardest around the holiday season as all the free time starts to make her hands and lips idle. Eventually the pressure from the supposedly unique and original drives her to a state of pure and corrupted self-indulgence; the subsequent taste in her mouth from such dry, formulated skin making her cough at the inclination of another late night like that one, where the lights were only reflecting negatives. Her eyes still burn from the glare, and furthermore the illogical sense deeply rooted within her ever-expanding mind that says such actions were different from all the other bored and fleeting moments in her past, while still not significant enough to mean everything to her.
It was a learning experience rooted in narcissism, and never later used for material or even self-reflection for that matter. It would require for her to first be inspired in order to create something truly sensational and in this case, just as it has happened and she has tried for it to happen before, the shear act has never been enough to sustain such a free-floating antibody. She simply needed to know if it would make her feel any different, any less numb to the surrounding cold weather; open windows and thick black smoke pouring out of her lungs any time the inclination of death just happens to callously scratch away at her brain, which is more than often.
In clinical terms, she’s been suffering from a bad case of Jan Brady syndrome, eager for attention, anxious to make the team, while still weary of what such a grouping may mean in the grand scheme of things. Her thoughts then become diluted, inherently self-centered while still subscribing to the notion that she deserves such attention, because if nothing else, she has earned it for having to be alive and seemingly so depressed over the nature of human existence for so long. She would feel sympathy for those less fortunate, those who have had a much harder time trudging through the snow, that is to say if she ever thought about anybody other than herself.
She’s become seasoned at imitation; picking names out of enlarged black top hats and waiting to see whether or not the idea of her will casually stick to the foreground of their personalities. Sometimes these random pairings of unnatural sexual attraction or a vain motivation to rip apart the seemingly well off work to her advantage. She receives gifts of sentimental value, starring blankly into their scratchy faces on vinyl sleeves, pleased with herself not so much because she can now listen to the sounds, but rather that such a cherished memento is now a less than intricate part of her own collection.
Other times and more often than not these mirror acts end badly; her cellphone screen soon a vacant beacon of numbers she will never call or think about again other than in passing to get to somebody new and seemingly more intriguing. The looks from across the room then all begin to stir together in her system as she tries her best to ignore them; an act that has become as regular as her menstrual cycle. Yet she is grateful at times that some of these unfortunate members of society have managed to stick around and continue to blink often, if for no other reason then simply because she knows that everything is still working to her advantage.