Her eyes are crystalline in appearance, changeable like she would change her boyfriend – green today, gone tomorrow. Thank you, contact lenses.
Her nose, a proud display of her identity, is well-pronounced thanks to her creators. Genetics. Add a little foundation plus an outline of a darker shade, her nose ruled the world.
Her lips, a space that houses endless patterns, can also vouch all the 64 colors of Crayola in just a few minutes with a guaranteed retouch in the next five minutes.
Her cheeks, sometimes red, sometimes roasted, are dynamic as usual – a fake natural blush which can be worn regardless of the weather.
Her face is deeply buried in a thick layer of cheap cosmetics which promised to make her look like a star. The idea delighted her. “I must be a star,” she told herself.
Her wardrobe is a cornucopia of colorful tank tops and haltered girly apparel combined with “pekpek shorts” and “puta pants” in all shapes and sizes. Finishing her combination with shoes comparable to Titanic, she realized she forgot to make herself complete by putting the necessary accessories that will not only grab your boyfriend’s eye but your boyfriend as well.
Necklaces. Bracelets. Rings. Earrings. Praning. Whatever makes her world go round. She has mastered her art and turned herself into an image of perfection, a model as she sees fit. Kitsch.
She heard that Big Brother’s house is opening its doors. The door is calling her to open it herself. She wants to be a star. All her activities documented before the curious eyes of the public. Must. Act. Like. A. Real. Girl. “I will be a star.”
Wait – she is already a star. A star in her own world. Her otherworldly aura sucking the essence, the innocence in every girl reaching her individual Twelvedom. She is a teenager after all and she thinks she’s famous.
She is a star as far as what she thinks she could ever be.