#every other tweet is someone making up a fake scenario where hes center of attention like wow the parasocial is really hitting for you!

[yixiangs]

kkultaraes are one of the most miserable fandoms ive ever seen and for good reason why is he constantly being given dirt

[curious-minx]

Tiffany’s Wastrel

The following short story is based loosely on the above tweet. Enjoy.

Tiffany is acquiring a taste for wastrels.

Especially for the ones with trellises and coiffed, pressed curls.

She pushes past her usual coterie of bleach blonde maniacs and born again divas that once crowded up her equally spacious and collapsing studio upper crust loft. 

She envisions herself intentionally choking upon a rice cracker alone and saving herself at the last moment. Delicious!

Would you like a duel? Asks the phlegmy ancient frenchie that is poking through her front door. 

“Excuse me?” Tiffany makes sure she stares the fellow down and then quickly looks away depleted from having to sustain so much direct eye contact. 

Pip the ancient frenchie takes a swig out of a small ginger tonic he keeps strapped to his chest with a bandolier of tonics, “I repeat: would you like some gruel?! Tiffany you’ve got to catch up or else the entire team is going to march on off without you! How would you like to be cast out into a Tin Pan Alley without even a cockatoo to your name? Sure, you’re somewhat of a real classic Tenner, but  let’s not kid yourself your face has too many obvious  tells to be truly beautiful. Don���t fret though because everyone is really and truly ugly inside and out.” 

Another grotesque elderly lothario, Pip Levant, that frequently sloshes onto the elm shores of bookstore aisles on bad days waiting to go full blown Nabokov on anyone carrying the sweatiest perfumed glimpse of college. Pip had accrued a beggar’s banquet worth of bad habits when it came to Tisch students.  Tiffany has started recording these encounters and using the audio of these captured harassments  as a soundtrack to her fabulous revelry. Let Tiffany have her revelry you dirty old septic tank of a man. You look less like a man and more like a fox that Bryan Ferry has sought to personally catch and skin intoxicated by velvet clad hand. Tiffany has been preparing a launching off for a TV pilot point for her Elder Abuse-O-Rama daily streaming feed that has gotten over 150,000,000 views mostly by smoking children too tough for to be coaxed onto the factory scene. They have jail broken Fortnite and are capable of thrusting stock markets into disarray, but they are eyeballs and eyeballs click. 

Violence is not the answer, but it is the Design. How long has Tiffany started each day emerging from her clamshell bed muttering that stormy relegation? Stretch and and get a feel of today’s wastrel, they are a slender tomboy dressed in leisure wear the color of Haden mangoes and she is amusing herself with a possibly tasteless bit of Tulvan throat singing , worse of all possibly in an attempt to win over Tiffany by her biggest weakness: amusement. Sometimes all you can do with a wastrel like this is give a courtesy curtsey and bid the wastrel adieu. Locked out of her own apartment Tiffany begins to roam the streets of Roman Solitude Retreat Center which has become the size of its own municipality or at least triple the usual sitcom set. Tiffany remembers the last line she had on a Mainstream Cranial Transmission, “Molly Trapped in The Polygon Mall.” Paid in sleek blue cash and she kept it all inside of her fanatical sister’s private banking system where all  of her family funds are stashed away in inside the family compound’s  intricate false rec room. Tiffany can’t remember this wastrel’s name so she hopes if she ignores them for long enough that they’ll do her a solid and dematerialize. Sometimes she breaks out a full on stoic fetal position wrapped around her blanket sarcophagus that was going to buried underneath her family’s shopping mall, a real brick and cement complex which wasn’t at all like the false duplicate mall her family had on loan in Dubai. How much does a personality cost? 

Tiffany is a breath away from answering her own fecund rhetorical when she espies that nearly an entire day has been spent hibernating, oh what a satisfying state, and one that Tiffany prides herself on mastering by constantly tapping into her surrounding ether and stern mental gymnastics. She’s had her fair share of unbelievers. Her train of thought is waylaid by the wrapped in Satanic strawberry gift wrapping prominently displayed on her kitchen vanity. She tears into the gift with a Skipper butterfly knife. Wow, more soap Tiffany wants to say aloud but she is saving her voice for a jump scare, hoping that this will be the present that finally kills me. Tiffany unwraps and palms the cantaloupe-n-Licorice scented goat oat milk soap bar, and of course, there is also another bathing cap. When did all of Tiffany’s dates start insisting that she start wearing a bathing cap  for every tryst? Stretching out her hunched wallflower posture into a oblique fortune five hundred pantheress  with a vision, always ready to abort any given mission. Looks like all of the freelance work wriggled itself out of the hall of self congratulating mirrors and shriveled up into the sheen of dust it has always been. There’s a problem with having a surplus of disposable income and it’s one of the many in her personal Anti-pride parade stampeding issues that Tiffany is dealing with, better than most. Ho hum. 

Another day in the life. 

Wait a sec, Tiffany realizes that she fell for one of the many FALSE STARTS that have been rampaging her apartment building. FALSE STARTS  of days  spent as an ode to lovemaking; days dedicated to laundry folding; waking up pregnant with someone else’s paranoia; burning down your house and the rest of the complex being a rare but sought after FALSE START, but other FALSE STARTS are convinced that the other one is openly putting a Welsh mobster hit out on the other. Is it possible to take a hit out on a photo wonders Tiffany? Specifically, the one she keeps in her walk way inside an empty bombed out hospital in Malta. Other such snapshots of daily life were also tormenting the rest of Tiffany’s entire building, surely you can sage that sort of thing away? Tiffany’s FALSE START looks like a pinwheel sprouting out of the rusty smoldering eternally damp spot on her apartment’s bedroom ceiling. Tiffany braces herself, lunge stretches, swaddles a Ninja tailored hijab across her head that suctions itself to her skull. Air circulates into the lungs, but the exhalations are filtered out and even cleaner than before. She has gotten a job as a weather presenter for a fetish enthusiast video game streamer who always has extraneous content for the fans. The unironic straight faced weather reporter portrayed by a youthful female that looks slightly unreal. Tiffany massages her smile dimples and manages to tilt her eyes in every conceivable expression; the main pre-show exercise she has been doing for a good decade now. 

////

Back on the set of one of her first jobs as a substitute “Older Sister” or throwaway Kooky Aunt for FACSIMILE FAMILIES INC. Her fictional father, Kale a method actor Pacific Island Man with incredibly bright fiery orange hair and glow in the dark freckles that made him constantly functioning at low-grade irritability. Whenever the real families were asleep Kale would creep into Tiffany’s attic room wearing a flowing night gown and a cigarette stained fuzzy robe. He would mutter all sorts of things never actually going inside of her room but just suspended in air on the ladder leading into the attic. One such muttering exchange  sticks out in Tiffany’s imaginings: 

A decade spent in this town and even the most alpha Fool gets thrown out for a newer model. Thankfully that won’t happen to you. 

“Why not? “ Tiffany asks fully knowing the answer. 

Tiffany you’re too much risky business. Something is always fussing around you. You’re gonna be fine, especially when you’re not.

Back on set living the life of a fictional family member Tiffany cradled a special hated in her heart for whenever Kale was being cute, and she was readying to go and take notes of the other crew members smoking and getting union benefits. Then Kale made his average frame appear more layered and enlarged by holding his breath only in certain parts of his body. Complete control is but a mere fragment of the whole this Entertainment Business requires. Spanking the imaginary neighbor too hard on a playdate is the only scenario Kale ever really got to act in and Tiffany never bothered to stay in touch, but the Fake Dad was right, there is something fussing around me. Tiffany flashes a tight knit smile and she grabs a magic eight ball and swinging winged bat, a cold transfused powder steel baby blue and jostles open one of the house’s many front facing windows. Without even looking Tiffany reaches into the umbrella stand pale containing a rough and splintered baseball bat. With one crack of that bat she cleanly smashes a drone out of the sky, the machine putters and sputters lamely crashing down into a private nude beach. .Another one of her secret garden variety admirers keeping an ever watchful eye?  There are only so many drones you can cause crashing down out of the sky before you’ve got to pay back an obnoxious fees and fines. Community service is even enforced with classes to drone building classes sprouting up all over the country. The real family grew tired of Tiffany attracting so much attention of making their family feel too mythopoetic. Tiffany could handle getting fired from all sorts of jobs and she was maybe most thankful for being terminated for this one. She was starting to grow too fond of portraying Laurel Tallow daughter of Kale and Whisper Tallow. You have to always be able to find yourself. 

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A sickly fresh out of college bird man, a Gentleman Finch, is greasing up his feathers with Tokyo milk and sebum outside of Tiffany’s apartment building, checking his reflection in the empty koi pond. The Gentleman Finch Using the abandoned walker as a prop to imagine getting old with Tiffany, but then smashing it up and fluttering away with merciful glee. He must have been circling the block for at least half an hour but he hid his agitation well when he greets Tiffany. 

Oh, great, not another wastrel. Tiffany  lifts the bird boy up by his scruffy lapel and shoves him towards the community bathing center that has been closed since Tiffany moved in for constant reupholstering and fumigation. There is even an over eager exhibitionist elderly nudist. He is reciting the history of the Roman Empire by memory and coaxes the bird man child into the pool who falls in first flustered, and then he wheezes his bony little chest into a doggy paddle. He doesn’t even seem to care that his tweed suit is irreparably damaged. 

Tiffany is acquiring a taste for privacy. She no longer traps her thoughts and misabelq them in jars. She is taking this time for herself. She is going to finally learn how to play the saxophone and be her own musical support on her own talk show. Sure, there are too many talk shows right now and it is a dying form of disposable industry, but you have your dreams and leave Tiffany with hers. Tiffany draws up a frothy absurdist escapist bath that is overflowing the entire apartment building. All of the FALSE STARTS are splashing about and pretending to be water nymphs in a manner eerily similar to when Tiffany tripped on acid at the Washington Yearning Yeti festival. Tiffany calls out to one her many readjustable neighbors: Hazel the Terrible, Lorne and Sade the lovers that always setting off alarms of their own agony and ecstasy, Father Pennyweather the convicted child molesting Catholic Priest with an expansive TinTin collection and was weaving a TinTin a Day tapestry in the building’s lobby, and even entire dozen of rude Yuzu family children were nowhere to be seen and no one bothers answering any of her calling out. 

Pip is on an island of other people’s belongings and debris, stroking Hazel the Terrible’s dirty snow colored Pomeranian who is upsettingly sedate in Pip’s hairy arms. The Gentleman Finch offers a wing to Tiffany, he is out of breath despite flapping because his life depending on it. Tiffany shrugs him away and hops onto the back the Last Great American Whale, she is smoking a pipe, and she is exactly the kind of life model a woman could hope to find in these canceled times. The Last Great American Whale sings

I’ve watched my best brothers and sisters become bulimic because of arrogant Jonahs 

Festoon your sharpest harpoons with my blubber because I’m going splashing

There’s a washed up Actor finding her way in the world and I am not her taxi 

Nor am I her Mustang Sally, but nonetheless she shall Ride these waves with me

How about the Palisades?

Tiffany attempts to warble, “Suits me just fine,” but the Last American Whale sighs and gives Tiffany the silent treatment for the rest of the ride. Tiffany is deposited off on a cliff where she is free to dangle her feet over brackish crashing water. Down below idling in the Hudson is the same tomboy wastrel from earlier operating a steel sail boat. The ship’s sail  is designed with a print of Tiffany’s shadowed eyes and Tiffany has no choice but to be kind of impress. The tomboy aims a cannon and fires out a parachute at Tiffany with fairly clunky but legible instructions and descends onto her craft. 

I was hoping that you’d be wearing your new bathing cap.

“I bet you would. Listen, you’re perfectly cute in a droopy eyed Shelley Duvall kind of way but I’m not really that interested in having a relationship right now.”

Fine by me. Just so you know this ship is not meant to travel far and I can only get you back onto the New York side. Is that where you want to go?

“I do think of you as a mighty great acquaintance…” Tiffany holds waiting for the tomboy’s name to occur to her, but the tomboy simply stares at her, smiles and nods. “New York is the last place in the world I want to go, but it is where I must. The planet has been divided and conquered by the anointed media conglomerates and they want me back there….I want to say…Rikki.”

Glad you finally remembered.

“Whew so your name is Rikki? It’s certainly...spunky.”

No, but I’ll take it. I’ll wait and see how long it takes for you to guess my name right. The longer you take the bigger your prize. I’m going to port in Vermont, maybe Montreal if this old tin bitch can handle it. 

“Canada. You know, I’ve always loved Canada. Joni Mitchell, Destroyer, Mark McKinney, what a country.”

They’ll probably deport you, but you can stay with me as long as you like or I can at least help get you sit up with a new place. 

And with that the two women with no chemistry and a flaky friendship pointed and directed wind machines into the masts of Rikki(?)’s sail boat, which despite being weighed down by ostentatious steel was beginning a glide up the Hudson. Tiffany kicks herself when she realizes that she has agreed to this nautical voyage without having packed anything other than what she is wearing, but then The Gentleman Finch comes back up over the horizon lugging up one of Tiffany’s antiquate trunk suitcases big enough to fit at least one coastal traveling magician’s circuit worth of belongings, the trunk lands with a gentle thud onto the ship nearly causing the entire vessel to sink. Tiffany has to quickly go through her belongings and sacrifice a flank of wardrobe and two forty pound sacks of floral loose tea leaves that make one’s complexion clear and the glow of living in the present, she still had three more but it still did not diminish the weight of the sacrifice the Hudson is in a state of shock with the weight of so much style and sophistication. 

A sea mammal somewhere between a manatee and a bipedal seal with flippers with thumb like protrusions catches flipperfulls of garments, and on a slippery jutting rock begins trying on some of Tiffany’s more scandalous Hudson offerings and is stuffing the rest of the clothes inside of  a repurposed fisherman’s net. A gal can always afford to be thrifty. Rikki(?)’s sail boat regains momentum with the assistance of the loud and careening wind machines that Rikki silently with the same expression somewhere between a hesitant grimace and surgeon’s gleeful bad diagnosis. Tiffany reminds herself that this is all temporary. Even newer Jerseys and future minted Yorks will colonize and fetishize even taller metropolises, or better yet retrograde back into a state of complete wilderness. Suits Tiffany mighty fine because she’ll just be using the timber of said wilderness to fashion herself her own Desk. The tinier, aerodynamic and all-encompassing the better. The swaying undercarriage of the steely ship rocks Tiffany into a glimpse of a doze, trying to keep one eye open, trying to not get taken advantage, trying to not appear to be trying. 

The Canadian Border approaches. Nevermind, that’s just the Catskills.