Azalea is definitely exaggerating. I’m wearing the same dress the massacre occurred in, so it couldn’t have been that bad, bloodwise at least. The cape did look pretty bad, though. I’ll give her that.
“I didn’t see much. I heard an argument, though.” With a snicker she says, “Well, I mean,everyoneheard an argument.”
“What about?”
“Something about a guy. And I heard someone mention GoldRush.”
“GoldRush?”
“You know, that dating app for rich guys.”
So it’snota mine in Alaska, and it’s something worth arguing over? It still doesn’t ring a bell.
“I don’t know what the argument was about, but I heard someone yell ‘GoldRush!’ which I thought was funny. I just read about this chick I went to high school with. She got engaged to some high-fructose gazillionaire from Iowa.” The California-speak edges into her voice the more emotional she gets about not having her own millionaire. When she says, “I mean, Iowa!” she might as well be in the Valley twirling her hair. “They met on GoldRush. I was totally thinking of signing up. I mean, it’d be like winning the lottery, but girl, I’ve earned it.”
Her eye makeup game is solid, if that’s what she’s getting at. More important, maybe that’s how I met my millionaire.I mentally flag this to research later; I need to get every bit of info out of Azalea while I can.
“Anyway, when I heard yelling, I came running…totally dropped the tray I was carrying, which would have pissed my boss off, if he’d noticed. Before I got to the screaming, I saw you falling toward the ice sculpture. In a split second you’d smacked into it and were sprawled on the ground.”
“Ice sculpture?” She must mean the Cupid I was kissing in my last Insta post. Good thing he didn’t actually kill me. That would’ve been crazy morbid, definitely worth one of those “Last post before she died” slideshows on BuzzFeed.
“Yeah, it was this cute sculpture of Cupid. In retrospect, that arrow was probably too pointy.”
“Did someone push me into Cupid or did I just fall?”
“Pushed. I saw you being propelled backward into the statue.ThatI’m sure of, but I don’t know who pushed you. There was a commotion and whoever did it took off.”
Someone pushed me into Cupid’s arrow. Talk about messed up. Did my attacker choose the statue intentionally or was it just a random act of symbolism?
“I gotta get back to work,” she says.
“Cool, can we exchange numbers or something, though? In case I have any more questions?”
She gives me her cell. “I’m also@TheRealChicaBonitaon Insta if you want to look me up.”
I add Azalea’s phone number to my contacts; she is one of two people in my phone whom I know IRL. If I get married anytime soon, she’ll have to be a bridesmaid.
I watch Azalea head back to work. She’s going to look great in my wedding photographs at least. The girl is adorable—cuter than me, even. Luckily, it doesn’t seem like I’m a competitive bitch.#girlpower.
In the parking lot I scroll through her Instagram. On Tuesday, she posted a selfie with her eyes brimming with tears, just the right amount to make her look sad-pretty and draw attention to her improbable lashes. There’s no way those are natural, right? And what filter is this? Rise? It’s really flattering. I scan the caption:Saw a woman die tonight. Hold your loved ones tight. Any moment could be your last.
Really, Azalea, talk about jumping to conclusions. I definitely wasn’t dead. I roll my eyes at the comments below the picture:
OMG Zizi! I hope u r OK! All my!!!!!
Stay strong gurl!!!!
Plus about twenty more.
Excuse me. I didn’t even get flowers. Not a single condolence or visitor to the hospital. This post was like my obituary starring Azalea.
The morning after my supposed death, she posted a picture of her butt in tight jeans.
Azalea is officially out of the wedding.
I need to get out of here, but on the way out of the museum I walk pastMySelfie,the new exhibit. Fuck them. Fuck their pain. I’m going to give them a goddamn self-portrait. There’sa selfie booth with a very PhD-esque description of the selfie as today’s version of the self-portrait, and a few sentences about how in the past only the rich could experiment with self-portraiture, versus these days when every asshole can take a gazillion self-portraits a day. Was this the democratization of self-obsession? On another note, I’m totally saving the line about democracy for the next time Max looks smug when I take a pic in front of him.
I’m not sure if the commentary about the inherent power of choosing how to present yourself to the world jibes with reality. The wall of self-portraits is filled with shots of girls with heart crowns and Barbie-fied faces. Does a Snapchat filter that gives you kitty whiskers, makes your ears sparkly, and erases your zits carry power? Is there power in choosing to be fake? In choosing to conform? Online anyone can look like an ideal woman, but only online.
