Friday, October 30, 2009
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
tout va de travers
tout va de travers; translation: everything goes wrong
Bonjour, and welcome to the musings, the unprecedented and completely personal thoughts of Ariele. aka, me.
Ok, let me try to remember when we picked off. Oh yeah, meeting the adorably fiercely amazingly sexy asshole aka Mia's brother, and TDI's devil offspring. After meeting gorgeous Burbery Boy too.
Basically, I headed straight to college. It was quiet, except for the rare ocassional college student waltzing past in the arms of some other guy. I couldn't help noticing that it seemed like everyone had someone else... except for me. I sat myself in the library, giving all the middle-aged librarians the fiercest glare possible whenever they looked at the girl with the brown patch on her pants and the tired, grumpy eyes (thanks, Mia's Brother)
Anyway. So i'm reading a history on vintage handbags, (tres fascinating, merci) and contemplating my bitter fate. I'm already by then, in a sarcastically moody mindframe thanks to the biggest and hottest asshole I have ever met in my life, and my future looks dim. Never returning to my hometown, having a hopelessly mindless career wasting away while my bitch sister plays it up in Paris, boyfriend-less and lusting after Mia's brother, no matter how much I already hate him, and having a stellar attraction to Burberry boy too. My Brick dings, its loud and shrill, but none of the librarians come and tell me off, their loss, probably terrified away by my big wild eyes and the anger in my face.
You can come back now... I've already bought dinner, Thai, your favourite. xo
It's from Mia, decisively apologetic. If she knew me well enough she'd know that baguettes and cheese from France are my favourite. With escargot for dinner. I have to admit, I'm feeling a wave of homesickness, probably the result of the thousands of purposely missed calls from my busy and demanding mother.
Instead, I head home. My ugly-stylish heels are hurting, my head is throbbing, and I'm holding my phone away from my body warily. I'm debating whether to pick up another coffee, but decide against it, purely based on my new fear of crotch-stains. I finally reach the apartment, with a glower as I pass the lobby room (recalling the Ass's words) and the door flings open before I even reach distance of it. The furious babble of apologies from Mia's mouth barely deter me as I give her a cool glance (the one SuperBitchSister Giselle mastered) and head into my room. She follows intently, still babbling. "I'm sorry, you know what my Mom is like, I'm sorry, I just wasn't thinking, I was stressed..." I dig through my messy closet (Damn not having a maid in this hellhole apartment) and pull out my familiar pitch black, skin-tight skinny leg jeans, (some obscure French designer that I got cheap, but yet the jeans are an absolute beauty) my sky high silver stilettos with a vengeance, my loose fitting rock singlet with a purposely-fading Kurt Cobain photo, which adds some curves in the right places when cinched in with a braided Navajoe style braided black leather belt at the waist, a leather jacket with the cuffs rolled up, my favourite black leather handbag (Fendi, too, expensive as hell but so worth it) and a shitload of jewellery, all silver bangles and dainty feminine chains on my neck,. I allow my hair to fall down my shoulders, and I apply the makeup on fiercely. And all through this, Mia is still talking. I step out of the bathroom, admire myself for a moment (I'm entitled to at least one conceited moment a day please) and smile. I turn to my roommate, and she shuts up. "I'll forgive you ... if you come with me." I say simply, heading into the kitchen. She blinks, confused. I grab a bowl and start filling it with Pad Thai. Baguettes or no baguettes, this will do. She watches cautiously as I scarf down the food. "Nightclub. You're paying, a classy one too. You better eat up, because I'm sure taking the day off work tomorrow." I give her a devil's glare that she can't refuse as she sits down beside me. I pass her a bowl silently, and she passes me a bottle of beer. I uncap it without thinking and take a long sip. Usually, beer isn't my thing- in my parisian days, I always considered it so vulgar and middle class. But now? Who gives a damn. Mia is watching me, looking a bit scared. I glance at my phone- nada. Not even from my mother, let alone Burberry Boy. I hope to God that he's playing it cool, that he is eventually planning on calling me. "One more thing." I add quickly, standing up and fluffing my hair absently. Mia looks at me silently, eyes huge. "That jackass brother of yours got a girlfriend?" She looks at me for a long moment before replying. "Let's just go, Ariele." And with that, I shrug and follow, taking my beer with me.
Bonjour, and welcome to the musings, the unprecedented and completely personal thoughts of Ariele. aka, me.
Ok, let me try to remember when we picked off. Oh yeah, meeting the adorably fiercely amazingly sexy asshole aka Mia's brother, and TDI's devil offspring. After meeting gorgeous Burbery Boy too.
Basically, I headed straight to college. It was quiet, except for the rare ocassional college student waltzing past in the arms of some other guy. I couldn't help noticing that it seemed like everyone had someone else... except for me. I sat myself in the library, giving all the middle-aged librarians the fiercest glare possible whenever they looked at the girl with the brown patch on her pants and the tired, grumpy eyes (thanks, Mia's Brother)
Anyway. So i'm reading a history on vintage handbags, (tres fascinating, merci) and contemplating my bitter fate. I'm already by then, in a sarcastically moody mindframe thanks to the biggest and hottest asshole I have ever met in my life, and my future looks dim. Never returning to my hometown, having a hopelessly mindless career wasting away while my bitch sister plays it up in Paris, boyfriend-less and lusting after Mia's brother, no matter how much I already hate him, and having a stellar attraction to Burberry boy too. My Brick dings, its loud and shrill, but none of the librarians come and tell me off, their loss, probably terrified away by my big wild eyes and the anger in my face.
You can come back now... I've already bought dinner, Thai, your favourite. xo
It's from Mia, decisively apologetic. If she knew me well enough she'd know that baguettes and cheese from France are my favourite. With escargot for dinner. I have to admit, I'm feeling a wave of homesickness, probably the result of the thousands of purposely missed calls from my busy and demanding mother.
Instead, I head home. My ugly-stylish heels are hurting, my head is throbbing, and I'm holding my phone away from my body warily. I'm debating whether to pick up another coffee, but decide against it, purely based on my new fear of crotch-stains. I finally reach the apartment, with a glower as I pass the lobby room (recalling the Ass's words) and the door flings open before I even reach distance of it. The furious babble of apologies from Mia's mouth barely deter me as I give her a cool glance (the one SuperBitchSister Giselle mastered) and head into my room. She follows intently, still babbling. "I'm sorry, you know what my Mom is like, I'm sorry, I just wasn't thinking, I was stressed..." I dig through my messy closet (Damn not having a maid in this hellhole apartment) and pull out my familiar pitch black, skin-tight skinny leg jeans, (some obscure French designer that I got cheap, but yet the jeans are an absolute beauty) my sky high silver stilettos with a vengeance, my loose fitting rock singlet with a purposely-fading Kurt Cobain photo, which adds some curves in the right places when cinched in with a braided Navajoe style braided black leather belt at the waist, a leather jacket with the cuffs rolled up, my favourite black leather handbag (Fendi, too, expensive as hell but so worth it) and a shitload of jewellery, all silver bangles and dainty feminine chains on my neck,. I allow my hair to fall down my shoulders, and I apply the makeup on fiercely. And all through this, Mia is still talking. I step out of the bathroom, admire myself for a moment (I'm entitled to at least one conceited moment a day please) and smile. I turn to my roommate, and she shuts up. "I'll forgive you ... if you come with me." I say simply, heading into the kitchen. She blinks, confused. I grab a bowl and start filling it with Pad Thai. Baguettes or no baguettes, this will do. She watches cautiously as I scarf down the food. "Nightclub. You're paying, a classy one too. You better eat up, because I'm sure taking the day off work tomorrow." I give her a devil's glare that she can't refuse as she sits down beside me. I pass her a bowl silently, and she passes me a bottle of beer. I uncap it without thinking and take a long sip. Usually, beer isn't my thing- in my parisian days, I always considered it so vulgar and middle class. But now? Who gives a damn. Mia is watching me, looking a bit scared. I glance at my phone- nada. Not even from my mother, let alone Burberry Boy. I hope to God that he's playing it cool, that he is eventually planning on calling me. "One more thing." I add quickly, standing up and fluffing my hair absently. Mia looks at me silently, eyes huge. "That jackass brother of yours got a girlfriend?" She looks at me for a long moment before replying. "Let's just go, Ariele." And with that, I shrug and follow, taking my beer with me.
sheer elegance, sheer talent, sheer beauty.
i can't believe i ever doubted daisy lowe's beauty.
british eclectic angelic photoshoots always win me over.
Take these sunken eyes and learn to see
andy warhol's sense of creativity and insight never fails to amaze me,his talent shines like an incandescent light amongst a pitch black world of mindless pop culture.
this portrait of mick jagger has always been one of my favourites.
you were only waiting for this moment to arise
beauty is sychronized in this photoshoot to promote jeans.
simplistic, raw, femininity, beauty, thankyou.
spread your broken wings and learn to fly
Eclectic. Chic. Fantastic. Feminine. Gorgeous. Feline. Bold. ... I couldn't find the perfectly fitting adjectives enough for this outfit, let alone the woman wearing it. I love the outburst of colour and the boldness in the metallic dress, with the corset styling, simple accessories and the nuances in her messy bed hair and rock-chic black jacket.
polaroïd
i've had a strange obsession for polaroid photos lately. Polaroids capture the essence of an image and make it simplistic, yet purely beautiful.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
la mode.
elle est tres beau, tres jolie!
la beau mannequin #1
la beau mannequin #1
translation: beautiful model
i'm obsessed with erin wasson. beautiful? yes, in an eclectic, skinnylegged, bohemian blonde way, she's captured my heart and stolen all model-istic essence a fashion queen can have.
plus, she has pins to die for,.
plus, she has pins to die for,.
tu es mon monde.
tu es mon monde; translation: you are my world.
Bonjour, and welcome to the musings, the unprecedented and completely personal thoughts of Ariele. aka, me.
Let's just clear some things out first.
1.) I'm guiltily and obsessively a fashion slave. When I'm not furiously trying to examine Tolstoy's War and Peace and trying to write an essay describing the themes within his novel, I'm reading fashion blogs, googling my favourite designers and envying all the clothes all over the World Wide Web.
2.) About all the French - I was born and raised in France, Paris with my family. My father was American, so I was taught both English and French, and I moved to America three years ago to study and enhance my academic skills, not realizing how much I'd miss the quiet serenity of Paris compared to the crazy and hectic city of New York.
3.) Describing myself, it's harder than it seems. How can you put yourself a way that doesn't sound conceited? OK, I have long brown hair, blue eyes, I'm fairly thin, but not in a Kate-Moss circa. Calvin Klein style, and I'm tall, 172cm. I have the hints of a French accent, which is slowly becoming warped with the American drawl, which I'm trying very hard to fight against. And when I'm not kicking back at my shabby flat shared with my roommate and college friend who we'll refer to as Mia, per se, struggling to try and cook something creative and once again returning to the worn Chinese menu, trying to scrape together savings from my job (assistant & secretary at a mani-pedi place, it's hell. More coming on that front), clubbing at free and unhygienic hellholes in an attempt to feel like I have a social life, I'm trying and not coping well through classes.
4.) Boys, the one thing that could ever challenge my love for fashion and music. I've had a herd of boy related relationships, a small number of one night stands, one or two serious boyfriends that have never really felt, well, serious enough. Of course, that whole retrospective of "single and loving it" changed last night. Once again, more coming on that front.
5.) I get regular and nostalgic phone calls from my slightly insane mother and glamorous older sister, as I successfully lie about my happy, cheerful, perfect New York lifestyle in my swanky new flat with my hot new businessman boyfriend. I'm livin' in a lie.
OK, I may as well start from this morning. It's 7:00am, I'm exhausted as usual. I drag myself out of bed, and with a wary glance in the closet, decide I couldn't care less what I look like as I toss on a creased white button down, skinny dark jeans, my plain deep brown kitten heels and I of course, loop a shimmery black LV knockoff scarf around my neck (I'm usually a hater of knockoffs, but this morning's activites kind of required the quasi-designer boost of confidence.) I manage to scrape my tangled hair back in some sort of ratty updo as I stagger into the dimly lit kitchen. Honestly, I'm not even wearing makeup. My roommate, Mia, eyes me warily, and I pray to God knows who's out there that she'll take in my mismatched, crumpled new look as some sort of international Parisian chic. She shrugs and turns, and tosses me a banana. Naturally, I notice it coming about five seconds after it sails in the air towards my head and it falls to the floor in a deep splat. Nothing damaged, except for my weight as I down the kilojoule-infected, bruised banana hungrily. My day off classes, and already my day of relaxation before a night of partying is out the window.
Basically, long story short, Mia's family is coming to visit, and in less than half an hour, and their eta? 7 fricking 30. Who does that? My commands from Mia is to, "Get the hell out of here by 7:20, I don't care what the fuck you do." Your wish is my command. So now, I'm rushing out of the apartment, it's 7:15 and I look like hell personified, with nowhere to go. I have hardly any friends in New York, apart from Mia and our gaggle of "girls", who are all living with boyfriends, or sisters, or bestfriends, and Adam, my guy-best friend who is single, but lives in a hole worse than mine. I stumble down the pavement, and already there are people out, laughing and chattering, as bright eyed and bushy tailed as a herd of chipmunks. I manage to hold the swearing and screaming behind my tongue before heading into the nearest Starbucks. Oh thank God. Johnny, the 40-something year old guy who works the counter, gives me a confused smirk, probably not used to seeing me in a Desperate-Housewives meets Businesswoman-Slut outfit. But i shoot him my biggest glare and he backs off, without even so much asking where Adam is. Within minutes, I'm seated, with the latest Vogue, American, admittedly, and a steaming hot coffee in my hand.I'm glancing at the weekly style watch of Victoria Beckham when I hear Johnny calling, and it's Adam. I smile when I see him, as often as I do, and he looks the same as usual, weirdly dorky sweater vest and wild black-brown curls hanging over doe eyes and a lanky pale bony figure. "Hey Ad." I sigh, and he grins. "Ariele, you'll never believe..." He starts chirping away excitedly, his doe-brown eyes lighting up. "Anyway, I hafta go.... See ya, Ele." He saunters out after his busy monologue, most likely catching onto my black mood. I reutrn to my happy land of Vogue. My phone, nicknamed "the Brick", possibly used by American soldiers in the Civil War, chirps. I jump, and brown sloshy and steaming hot liquid pours angrily and vengefully all over my jeans and over Posh Beckham's pout, and truly fierce outfit. After hobbling away, swearing under my breath and facing fears that my legs have been burnt -therefore; no more cute Sass and Bide bikini which took up a whole month's paycheck to flaunt in the summer- I check the demon that caused this whole mess, (not Mia, and her family issues, I mean the phone.) I recognize the gaggle of numbers, and I turn my phone off irritably, there's no way in hell I can excitedly chirp to my mother about how beautiful and how great and how well everything is working out in New York, and then hear in return how fantastically Giselle's fashion model gig in France is going. (Giselle- i.e., my bitchy and entirely too glamorous sister. it's not normal.) That's when I feel a tap on my shoulders, and I turn. My eyes are practically blazing, and I'm tired, pissed off and determined to just walk back into my apartment and flop onto my creaky mattress, Mia's demonic wrath and all. Instead, I'm faced with a pair of big, brown eyes I swear could melt the frickin' Wicked Witch of the West's heart, and in return, I melt. Quite literally, the wind is making the wet soaky patches on my crotch reigon ice cold. The owner of these eyes smiles bashfully, and I register the rest of his face and body- wow. Wow. Wow. They don't make them like this in France. He has cropped deep brown hair and cheekbones that you only really see on glossy Burberry ads. He's muscular, but not too much in a disgusting I'm-On-Steroids-But-I'm-Just-Going-To-Deny-It way, in a lean and mean way. He's tall, a whole half head above me, and wearing a thick, black jacket and jeans that highlight his gluteus maximus tres nicely. I probably looked like a stunned penguin in the face of a sexy leopard seal, but hey, I was enjoying my view. He smiled and held something out. "Is this yours? You dropped it just now..." I gasp and fight the urge to grab my flat key. His voice trails, along with his eyes, which flicker on the dark brown patches on my crotch. OK, shit. "I spilt coffee. On my crotch, and on Posh Beckham." I stammer nervously. Oh God why? I can see laughter in his eyes, hopefully of the good kind i beg to myself. "I mean, I spilt coffee whilst reading a magazine, and unfortunately Posh Becks looks more tanned than ever." I finally manage, voice trembling ever so slightly. I don't know if this is possible, but I swore I see abs through his coat... Instead, I smile what I hope is sexily. I wonder if I swiped some of the mud from the ground onto my eyelashes that would work as mascara... and if I dressed in leaves, draping them in a sexy kimono way instead of this soccer-Mom get up. Or better yet, just go completely commando. Boys always like that.
Instead, Burberry-Boy smiles at me shyly and smiles. "I'm Tom." I fight the irrestible urge to scream, "Tom, do me right here and now!" Instead, I manage a composed smile back. "Ariele," I add. He smiles. "Cool. Hey... do you want to go out for coffee sometime? If you can handle it, that is." I honestly didn't think in that moment my heart was behaving healthily. Instead, I just nodded jerkily, probably looking diseased and mentally stunted as he asked my number, and I repeated it robotically, as he typed it into his shiny new iPhone, and with a stylish nod, he disappeared within the throes of New York-ians, leaving me cold, coffee-stained and completely affected. Eventually, I pulled myself together and also slunk into the crowd, mainly because I was getting tired of the creepy looks strangers were giving the girl who looked like she had wet herself. I decided vaguely to head back to the apartment, change, maybe crash for a couple of hours with my phone next to my head. Well, I probably wasn't going to expect any sleep for the next couple of hours until he called. I stepped into the flat area where all the letterboxes were, when I saw a guy walking down the stairs. He's sexy, but in a completely un-Burberry way. He's chiselled, with a squarish jaw and big, deep blueish eyes. He's muscular and tough, with longish blonde hair and an intensely broody and moody face expression. Think Ryan Atwood from the good old O.C. days but actually not constipated looking, and you have it right there and then. Our eyes meet, and I curse myself for seeing two hot guys while looking bladder-challenged, slutty and middle aged and unhygienic. He eyes me, amused. "I don't normally look like this." I blurt out. He watches me, humour in his eyes. "Hey, I didn't say anything." There's a long silence after his deep, slightly husky voice tinges the air. "Just saying. I normally don't look like a Desperate Housewife." This time, he chuckles softly. "Whatever. I'm not stuck on appearances." He gives me a meaningful look and I blink. "I'm not stuck on appearances! I'm just saying..." I protest furiously. He turns slowly, and he gives me a long, brooding stare, somehow sexier than ever. "Sure. Say what you want." I narrow my eyes. "Whatever. I just need to get changed." I sigh, and roll my eyes, running and brushing past him what I hope is sexily. When i cast a glance over my shoulder, he's rolling his eyes at me, bemused. I bite back my frustration and find myself at door 22, and burst in. Big mistake. Mia is sitting at the table, a fakely happy smile on her face, and her Mom is next to her, dressed in this weird suit skirt thing I swear old ladies in Kentucky wear. Her curls are coiffed in this high weird do, and I swear she's Barbra Streisland and Kim Cattral's twin. And after the evil glare she gives me, I change that mentally to evil twin. "Amelia, who in heaven's name is this?" She manages to shoot me a degrading stare whilst shooting her husband, a weedy and nerdy looking Bill-Gates type a look of disgust. I roll my eyes. "Oh, just another squatter. You're not welcome here, um... Crystal!" She boos, trying to flick me away with her tattoed wrist. I blink at her, slightly wide eyed. "Um, Mia, I'm your roommate." I say heavily, feeling the what was once coffee staining my skin. Great, poo-brown stains on my legs for all eternity too. Instead, Mia's mother, The Devil Incarnate, (Furthmore known as TDI) gives me a haughty sneer. "Amelia's roommate is a successful lawyer." I choke back my laughter and roll my eyes, giving Mia a glare. I'm turning to leave when I hear a voice that has already made me majorly pissed off. "Mom? Mia? Dad?" It's that arrogant blonde guy. My mouth drops open a little before I snap it up. He eyes me amusedly. "It's you, Miss Appearances," He adds. "Don't talk to her, Logan. She's a squatter." TDI hisses, and you'd think I have rabies or something. I roll my eyes. "I'm not a squatter, I live here." I begin to protest, but I walk away, deciding to go to Adam's rat infested lair anyway. But as I'm walking out, "Logan" the asshole catches my eye, and I have to admit there's nothing else I want than to grab his sexy lips and kiss him right then and there. Of course, if Tom didn't exist.
And if this Logan guy wasn't such an ass.
jusqu'à la prochaine fois,
translation: until next time,
-A
Bonjour, and welcome to the musings, the unprecedented and completely personal thoughts of Ariele. aka, me.
Let's just clear some things out first.
1.) I'm guiltily and obsessively a fashion slave. When I'm not furiously trying to examine Tolstoy's War and Peace and trying to write an essay describing the themes within his novel, I'm reading fashion blogs, googling my favourite designers and envying all the clothes all over the World Wide Web.
2.) About all the French - I was born and raised in France, Paris with my family. My father was American, so I was taught both English and French, and I moved to America three years ago to study and enhance my academic skills, not realizing how much I'd miss the quiet serenity of Paris compared to the crazy and hectic city of New York.
3.) Describing myself, it's harder than it seems. How can you put yourself a way that doesn't sound conceited? OK, I have long brown hair, blue eyes, I'm fairly thin, but not in a Kate-Moss circa. Calvin Klein style, and I'm tall, 172cm. I have the hints of a French accent, which is slowly becoming warped with the American drawl, which I'm trying very hard to fight against. And when I'm not kicking back at my shabby flat shared with my roommate and college friend who we'll refer to as Mia, per se, struggling to try and cook something creative and once again returning to the worn Chinese menu, trying to scrape together savings from my job (assistant & secretary at a mani-pedi place, it's hell. More coming on that front), clubbing at free and unhygienic hellholes in an attempt to feel like I have a social life, I'm trying and not coping well through classes.
4.) Boys, the one thing that could ever challenge my love for fashion and music. I've had a herd of boy related relationships, a small number of one night stands, one or two serious boyfriends that have never really felt, well, serious enough. Of course, that whole retrospective of "single and loving it" changed last night. Once again, more coming on that front.
5.) I get regular and nostalgic phone calls from my slightly insane mother and glamorous older sister, as I successfully lie about my happy, cheerful, perfect New York lifestyle in my swanky new flat with my hot new businessman boyfriend. I'm livin' in a lie.
OK, I may as well start from this morning. It's 7:00am, I'm exhausted as usual. I drag myself out of bed, and with a wary glance in the closet, decide I couldn't care less what I look like as I toss on a creased white button down, skinny dark jeans, my plain deep brown kitten heels and I of course, loop a shimmery black LV knockoff scarf around my neck (I'm usually a hater of knockoffs, but this morning's activites kind of required the quasi-designer boost of confidence.) I manage to scrape my tangled hair back in some sort of ratty updo as I stagger into the dimly lit kitchen. Honestly, I'm not even wearing makeup. My roommate, Mia, eyes me warily, and I pray to God knows who's out there that she'll take in my mismatched, crumpled new look as some sort of international Parisian chic. She shrugs and turns, and tosses me a banana. Naturally, I notice it coming about five seconds after it sails in the air towards my head and it falls to the floor in a deep splat. Nothing damaged, except for my weight as I down the kilojoule-infected, bruised banana hungrily. My day off classes, and already my day of relaxation before a night of partying is out the window.
Basically, long story short, Mia's family is coming to visit, and in less than half an hour, and their eta? 7 fricking 30. Who does that? My commands from Mia is to, "Get the hell out of here by 7:20, I don't care what the fuck you do." Your wish is my command. So now, I'm rushing out of the apartment, it's 7:15 and I look like hell personified, with nowhere to go. I have hardly any friends in New York, apart from Mia and our gaggle of "girls", who are all living with boyfriends, or sisters, or bestfriends, and Adam, my guy-best friend who is single, but lives in a hole worse than mine. I stumble down the pavement, and already there are people out, laughing and chattering, as bright eyed and bushy tailed as a herd of chipmunks. I manage to hold the swearing and screaming behind my tongue before heading into the nearest Starbucks. Oh thank God. Johnny, the 40-something year old guy who works the counter, gives me a confused smirk, probably not used to seeing me in a Desperate-Housewives meets Businesswoman-Slut outfit. But i shoot him my biggest glare and he backs off, without even so much asking where Adam is. Within minutes, I'm seated, with the latest Vogue, American, admittedly, and a steaming hot coffee in my hand.I'm glancing at the weekly style watch of Victoria Beckham when I hear Johnny calling, and it's Adam. I smile when I see him, as often as I do, and he looks the same as usual, weirdly dorky sweater vest and wild black-brown curls hanging over doe eyes and a lanky pale bony figure. "Hey Ad." I sigh, and he grins. "Ariele, you'll never believe..." He starts chirping away excitedly, his doe-brown eyes lighting up. "Anyway, I hafta go.... See ya, Ele." He saunters out after his busy monologue, most likely catching onto my black mood. I reutrn to my happy land of Vogue. My phone, nicknamed "the Brick", possibly used by American soldiers in the Civil War, chirps. I jump, and brown sloshy and steaming hot liquid pours angrily and vengefully all over my jeans and over Posh Beckham's pout, and truly fierce outfit. After hobbling away, swearing under my breath and facing fears that my legs have been burnt -therefore; no more cute Sass and Bide bikini which took up a whole month's paycheck to flaunt in the summer- I check the demon that caused this whole mess, (not Mia, and her family issues, I mean the phone.) I recognize the gaggle of numbers, and I turn my phone off irritably, there's no way in hell I can excitedly chirp to my mother about how beautiful and how great and how well everything is working out in New York, and then hear in return how fantastically Giselle's fashion model gig in France is going. (Giselle- i.e., my bitchy and entirely too glamorous sister. it's not normal.) That's when I feel a tap on my shoulders, and I turn. My eyes are practically blazing, and I'm tired, pissed off and determined to just walk back into my apartment and flop onto my creaky mattress, Mia's demonic wrath and all. Instead, I'm faced with a pair of big, brown eyes I swear could melt the frickin' Wicked Witch of the West's heart, and in return, I melt. Quite literally, the wind is making the wet soaky patches on my crotch reigon ice cold. The owner of these eyes smiles bashfully, and I register the rest of his face and body- wow. Wow. Wow. They don't make them like this in France. He has cropped deep brown hair and cheekbones that you only really see on glossy Burberry ads. He's muscular, but not too much in a disgusting I'm-On-Steroids-But-I'm-Just-Going-To-Deny-It way, in a lean and mean way. He's tall, a whole half head above me, and wearing a thick, black jacket and jeans that highlight his gluteus maximus tres nicely. I probably looked like a stunned penguin in the face of a sexy leopard seal, but hey, I was enjoying my view. He smiled and held something out. "Is this yours? You dropped it just now..." I gasp and fight the urge to grab my flat key. His voice trails, along with his eyes, which flicker on the dark brown patches on my crotch. OK, shit. "I spilt coffee. On my crotch, and on Posh Beckham." I stammer nervously. Oh God why? I can see laughter in his eyes, hopefully of the good kind i beg to myself. "I mean, I spilt coffee whilst reading a magazine, and unfortunately Posh Becks looks more tanned than ever." I finally manage, voice trembling ever so slightly. I don't know if this is possible, but I swore I see abs through his coat... Instead, I smile what I hope is sexily. I wonder if I swiped some of the mud from the ground onto my eyelashes that would work as mascara... and if I dressed in leaves, draping them in a sexy kimono way instead of this soccer-Mom get up. Or better yet, just go completely commando. Boys always like that.
Instead, Burberry-Boy smiles at me shyly and smiles. "I'm Tom." I fight the irrestible urge to scream, "Tom, do me right here and now!" Instead, I manage a composed smile back. "Ariele," I add. He smiles. "Cool. Hey... do you want to go out for coffee sometime? If you can handle it, that is." I honestly didn't think in that moment my heart was behaving healthily. Instead, I just nodded jerkily, probably looking diseased and mentally stunted as he asked my number, and I repeated it robotically, as he typed it into his shiny new iPhone, and with a stylish nod, he disappeared within the throes of New York-ians, leaving me cold, coffee-stained and completely affected. Eventually, I pulled myself together and also slunk into the crowd, mainly because I was getting tired of the creepy looks strangers were giving the girl who looked like she had wet herself. I decided vaguely to head back to the apartment, change, maybe crash for a couple of hours with my phone next to my head. Well, I probably wasn't going to expect any sleep for the next couple of hours until he called. I stepped into the flat area where all the letterboxes were, when I saw a guy walking down the stairs. He's sexy, but in a completely un-Burberry way. He's chiselled, with a squarish jaw and big, deep blueish eyes. He's muscular and tough, with longish blonde hair and an intensely broody and moody face expression. Think Ryan Atwood from the good old O.C. days but actually not constipated looking, and you have it right there and then. Our eyes meet, and I curse myself for seeing two hot guys while looking bladder-challenged, slutty and middle aged and unhygienic. He eyes me, amused. "I don't normally look like this." I blurt out. He watches me, humour in his eyes. "Hey, I didn't say anything." There's a long silence after his deep, slightly husky voice tinges the air. "Just saying. I normally don't look like a Desperate Housewife." This time, he chuckles softly. "Whatever. I'm not stuck on appearances." He gives me a meaningful look and I blink. "I'm not stuck on appearances! I'm just saying..." I protest furiously. He turns slowly, and he gives me a long, brooding stare, somehow sexier than ever. "Sure. Say what you want." I narrow my eyes. "Whatever. I just need to get changed." I sigh, and roll my eyes, running and brushing past him what I hope is sexily. When i cast a glance over my shoulder, he's rolling his eyes at me, bemused. I bite back my frustration and find myself at door 22, and burst in. Big mistake. Mia is sitting at the table, a fakely happy smile on her face, and her Mom is next to her, dressed in this weird suit skirt thing I swear old ladies in Kentucky wear. Her curls are coiffed in this high weird do, and I swear she's Barbra Streisland and Kim Cattral's twin. And after the evil glare she gives me, I change that mentally to evil twin. "Amelia, who in heaven's name is this?" She manages to shoot me a degrading stare whilst shooting her husband, a weedy and nerdy looking Bill-Gates type a look of disgust. I roll my eyes. "Oh, just another squatter. You're not welcome here, um... Crystal!" She boos, trying to flick me away with her tattoed wrist. I blink at her, slightly wide eyed. "Um, Mia, I'm your roommate." I say heavily, feeling the what was once coffee staining my skin. Great, poo-brown stains on my legs for all eternity too. Instead, Mia's mother, The Devil Incarnate, (Furthmore known as TDI) gives me a haughty sneer. "Amelia's roommate is a successful lawyer." I choke back my laughter and roll my eyes, giving Mia a glare. I'm turning to leave when I hear a voice that has already made me majorly pissed off. "Mom? Mia? Dad?" It's that arrogant blonde guy. My mouth drops open a little before I snap it up. He eyes me amusedly. "It's you, Miss Appearances," He adds. "Don't talk to her, Logan. She's a squatter." TDI hisses, and you'd think I have rabies or something. I roll my eyes. "I'm not a squatter, I live here." I begin to protest, but I walk away, deciding to go to Adam's rat infested lair anyway. But as I'm walking out, "Logan" the asshole catches my eye, and I have to admit there's nothing else I want than to grab his sexy lips and kiss him right then and there. Of course, if Tom didn't exist.
And if this Logan guy wasn't such an ass.
jusqu'à la prochaine fois,
translation: until next time,
-A
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
Posts
