She's tall, dark (indians-dark), teethy, loves to be adored, loves to carry around cheap gucci bags and brags about owning branded products (ha), wears colourful juvenile-looking braces, has long unpolished deep chestnut hair, and owns a smile which she struggles to produce with such extreme tight scrunges. It would be a showcase of my language if I were to precede with descriptions but decriptions will forever remain vague.

I've longed to pull her wig (her hair actually), and sew them onto her plastic smile, which will automatically tangle with her corroding metal installed onto her teeth. A forever unfinished mannequin at its distort, often found crowing her strengths to the universe, and concealling her deformities under corduroy rags; maticates her food with tiny mouth movements, yet bile producing from every spit from her speeches. I've dreamed about the day when I stand aside and glee at her fall, maybe gloat innocently at her heels getting wedged between escalator gaps. I've smirked at thoughts of her getting duped by people she claim to adore; they came true anyhow. Graciousness doesn't exist in her book of life, love; she has never known. I've waited a year to watch her crumble to failure, then gradually die from devastation. Pleasure I gain from her misfortunes; I want to it to hit where it'll hurt longest. After all, I have been magnanimous.

Now, arrives her previous lover, another one of her wide array of novelty toys, who will read this (she always visits my blogging utopia), and feels the mild pinch in her chest. She will attempt, at all measures, to hide what she feels inside. The deceit, and dishonesty that follows up instinctly hurts her lover (current).

There and then, the whole cycle repeats; an already universal process the lovers go day after day.