Auditions for my future bestfriend: you wear bridal wear as daywear. You are really offended by people who do not dress up to hang out with you, even if you are wearing pyjamas (under a trench coat I selected for you) specifically because a guy was cruel to you last night. You didn’t even sleep but you’re in “last nights make up.” because you wear make up even when you’re at home, “alone”. Why wouldn’t you though? Why don’t you?? I mean really, come on. Rude.
This is one of our secret favourite films. It is also our brothers favourite films. My brother is technically hotter than yours, also politically a wayyyy bigger deal, this arouses fear in your brother(s). Our brothers are definitely bisexual. We genuinely think we are Hatsumomo but we are actually Pumpkin. When we hang out, I am Saiyuri and you are Hatsumomo. But we are actually Pumpkin.
When you are wearing trainers, you are having one of your famous nervous breakdowns. I am the only person who makes you feel not-insane, in the whole world, and you need me to be that person in your life. I am your enabler.
All of your lingerie is handwash only and you ideally have a maid that does it for you. You do not understand why I would think that was weird, or why anyone would think that was weird. I pity your maid frequently but you don’t because she earns more per annum than I do. But you value that I pity her because you know I’m cute for it.
You chainsmoke either vogues (the menthol ones) or sobranie – black ones. Maybe it’s mood dependent because the sobranies are harsh.
You have rainbow-sobranie spares in your handbag, for me. You let me go through your handbag and you let me chain smoke them. You don’t care about how much they cost because you aren’t cheap and also because you help yourself to the stuff in my room. (I am basically your personal shopper.) It isn’t stealing when you take things from my room, because you hold them up and say “this, I’m having, this I’m having, this I’m having) and I enjoy it because sharing makes me happy.
You have my pincode and pay for stuff with my bankcard even if I have no money in my account. You know my bank balance. You know all of my social media passwords. You delete messages from UGLY men. NOT HOT ONES. EVER.
You should ask me first because you sometimes don’t know who is worth your time. I attract people that own stuff that everyone wants, whose dads own stuff (you’re into dads and especially into dads older brothers, you actually are, I’m actually not, you use me to gauge how to flirt with them.)
You unironically agree that Netaporter is upping it’s own game because you, like me, appreciate supportive and constrictive underwear because you over eat. Water makes you bloated for the first two weeks of you doing anything worthwhile with your time. Also when you start talking to attractive men.
“no one else is allowed this close to my face karina” you’d think. And I’d enjoy it.
You despise of anyone I’m related to other than my granma and my aunt, and maybe my uncle Carlos who you know fancies you, who you think I don’t know fancies you – but I do know because I am an excellent psychic and tarot card reader and medium.
You get free readings but you make a fuss of me first.
The cards tell me when you are “secretly” sleeping with one of my boyfriends. I am more offended by there being secrets between us than that you are sleeping with someone I’m not that into anyway.
You are fake, you are shallow, you are not cheap, you are not blonde – unless Mattel has hired you to be their spokesperson. You only scan my memories to find attractive men to hang out with while I nag, and I don’t mind. You know I don’t mind but you tell me you’re doing it, by changing the subject with something like “so00ooooo, anyyyyyway”
You enjoy that I am broke right now, because you know I’ll be buying my own plane at some point in the very near future and that i’d continue renting this place anyway.
You enjoy that I don’t want a washing machine because I want to do photoshoots at the laundrette. “no, no, it’s cute, our washing machines once didn’t work and we had to send it all to the dry cleaners” (You really speak like that. I take you very seriously. most people don’t, but I do.)
You fetishise poverty and prostitution as much as I fetishise your elegant wealth and lack of ambition. (Neither of us would/could ever actually lifeswap but we think about it sometimes.)
You make snap-backs about how irresponsible I am with money but then your brother quips “yes but the economy really needs people who don’t understand how to save”. I am in love with your brother but you are also in love with your brother and you’re probably not actually related. (Or you are suuuper related and you’re confusing your brother issues for daddy issues, it’s a bit weird. We both know, we both know they know, we don’t go into it.) (It won’t change.) (EVER)
“the issue with zoella is they actually tried to give a #9 this narrative”
“not even with one of joseph fiennes sons could they pull that off”
“you cant do this narrative if you havent been raised in a capital”, our mutual friend-that-is-as-averse-to-friendship-as-we-are offers (this mutual-friend-not-friend is intimidating, she is posher than both of us being socially appropriate, we fancy her for it, she fancies our grandfathers. She keeps us grounded, the idea of her does anyway.)
We have these kinds of – serious – discussions over junkfood that we eat in private. Maybe not even in person. I think. They are world changing.
You periodically remind me of my fluctuating personal circumstances and that I got put in a psychiatric ward afew times (“BECAUSE A LOT OF WOMEN WERE JEALOUS OF ME” I scream think, I then scream think “they only don’t do it to you because you have relatives that ‘save up’ and you eye-fuck your psychiatrist(s?)) I periodically remind you that either I’m hotter than you “when I try” or that I’m “technically a much bigger deal in every respect.” We don’t have that conversation outloud, or in writing. Ever.
“but it’s true” I offer
“Shut the fuck up.” you offer in return, before I finish the thought-statement.
You hate your mother. I hate your mother too sometimes. I also flirt with your mother sometimes and that bothers you because you have spent a lot of your father’s cash on therapy to cope with how much you and her don’t get on. You sometimes wonder why you don’t introduce me to people but WE BOTH KNOW WHY. We avoid that conversation too. You telepathically make me think it is because I’m antisocial and embarrassing, but it’s because I’m cooler than you. (That is actually the worst argument that we’ve never had, and we don’t ever go there. Ever.) (It’s actually because I am a much better conversationalist and you ‘use me’ to chat and you’re concerned that everyone you know thats pretending otherwise will find out. They know. You know. They know you know. DW about it.)
You are not weirded out that I like to take photos because you also think you should have been a supermodel slash pornstar (we both wanted to be serious thespians that could do Shakespeare but did action movies instead because we both like ‘doing hot’ and we both did some sort of technique-heavy dance class in our childhoods that affected us so physiologically that if we don’t get photographed with good posture we obsess about it for a long, long, long time.) and you’ll “eventually be anorexic for a year” to “slim down” but you also really like cake and salty/fatty meat products. And frankfurters. Which I am certain are labgrown because a lot of ‘jews’ eat them. (You agree but you’re not listening because you’re forever obsessing about someone that I fancy that I couldn’t actually date and you let me ask you weird questions about your brother.) (The story is that consistent.) (Actually, the packaging for frankfurters triggers us both, and that is the real reason we don’t want people to know how much we rely on them and prefer them to expensive takeouts.)
Food. That is another thing. The food must always look good. If it doesn’t look good then what is the point. The food packaging is almost more important than the food. Actually this is why you fetishise poverty, you associate poverty with meat wrapped in brown paper packages when it NEVER IS. We prefer military wrapped American singles cheese to brie, but we prefer the packaging for brie.
Also we don’t recycle and we both exist eternally in guilt prison over the fact. Our brothers recycle because they learned early on that guilt prison is a tough road and they have a lot of guilt related to some kind of sexuality and they think they’re the only one. We share their sexualities but we don’t have any guilt about it and it works both ways.
We both like watching Friends. The sitcom. We “don’t anymore”, but we enjoy it anyway. Also Skins. We both suffer with PTSD so we forget the shows we like really fast and save them up for our long-term-relationships.
Your problem in life is that you pick quantity over quality, and that is why you had to divorce and you had to call me up to “have me” delete all your wedding photos. You got married to piss someone off – probably a male version of me. Yes. You know you should have asked me to design a bespoke wedding dress for you in my head, but you didn’t because you are very set in your ways and because you owe me an apology for something eternally.
You, like me, fancy the gays. You, like me, genuinely perceive their lack of interest in the female gender as a ‘challenge’.
They put my sexy older brother that I fancied for atleast a year of my life in prison for being too sexy. Like, they actually did. (That is how we speak to each other. In public places. We are both used to women stopping and staring, for all sorts of reasons. We don’t notice it unless they are hot. They are never hot.)
He was one of those five year olds that had a ceramic mozart bust in his room and if people dance in public it is because they are copying him or me.
Everyone you know has some story like that to tell and I am unimpressed by that and you enjoy my narcissism because you know you can afford to get work done if I get too sexy. And you know I know the best beauty aesthetician in the world. (Like, not well enough to get EITHER OF US a discount, but she loves me.) (You roll your eyes. Which is an attac you stole. Frankly.) (“She’s the.best, you have the money, you don’t need a discount” (double think:you do) “It’s just the gesture of the thing.” (double think: seriously shut the fuck up) “So you can tell your friends you did it because you got offered a discount?” (double think:love you though) “Exactly.” Telepathically, though.)
You “can’t” introduce me to your family or your friends (even though I am royalty and I’m a bigger deal than you) but you can introduce your other “friends” to your family and you only tell me that/upload the photos to facebook to hurt me. You have a list of excuses prepared in advance for when I confront you but I’ll wait til we’ve been friends for 2+ years before I confront you about why firstly: you celebrate christmas and secondly why you didn’t even get me a christmas present.
You DON’T fancy Heath Ledger because I’m his warwife (I WONT SHARE HIM WITH YOU, I WON’T) and you genuinely think it is totally normal that I will be having my favourite cartoon character (that you also don’t fancy, who I am legally married to) and my laptop transferred into physical bodies when I have the cash.
I know you’re embarrassed by my facebook but also you need me to not be boring.