GAGE

01| m o t t o s

Picture of Josie. Obviously.
_________________________

Eyelashes thick, hair thicker, butt thickest. What else do
you need?

The hair that is supposed to be framing my face has different plans. I try to sweep it away with my hand, but the drifting gusts of the pale winter air are clearly after me.

My thigh high boots spare my legs a good two inches from my skirt, only leaving a small portion of my legs have to suffer from the frosty city of Chicago.

Actually, scratch that. A hoe never gets cold.

...kidding. But the almost transparent white tights I wear also do my legs justice.

My exotic teal eyes pierce through everyone that I pass. I inadvertently judge.

A lady I spot clutches her fake pearls and diverts her gaze away from my cold one as soon as they meet.

I can't help but know that I'm truly no better than her -or anyone else on this overpopulated street for that matter - yet still feel as though I am.

You know what they say: act rich, look rich, be poor. As fuck.

I guess only I say that though, it's kind of my motto. I notice my faux fur vest resembles my sandy hair color as I pull only the top half into a ponytail. My plum sweater underneath reminds me of the wine I crave, despite being only eighteen.

Shitty Chicago parking makes me nearly late to class every time, but I suck up the eleven minute walk I have to endure to get my coffee from the Starbucks off campus.

The one on campus is too low on money to get me my extra cream, extra sugar, and extra caramel almost every day. Hell, I am.

Parallel parking got me fucked up. I shouldn't have to walk for eleven minutes twice with a nine minute break in between. The break is the time I spend ordering and waiting for the coffee.

I nearly collapse when a dirty homosapien has his foot stretching out on the sidewalk and catch it just in time before I trip over it.

"Excuse you," I roll my eyes, "God fucking damn! You would've been paying for a medical bill if I broke a leg, or even worse- new shoes if I broke a heel!" We both know he wouldn't have been able to pay to have my suede Nasty Gal boots that I payed two hundred forty-five fucking dollars to replaced.

He says nothing.

I heavily huff as I continue my journey, avoiding black ice in the way.

I take my last bitter breath of sharp air before I go to open the door to the boojie shop, but a gentlemen opens it instead. I nod slightly, satisfied with my effect on the submissive pedestrians.

The door flies open and bells jingle above my head when I step in and my heels create a steady beat. I act like I don't see where the line ends and insert myself into the trailing line smoothly.

• • •

I let my hair reign free as soon as my door clicks shut. Class was a shit show today, as usual. I stare at the interior of my hidden downtown apartment for a short moment before I exhale briefly and plop my champagne bag on the marble island along with my keys.

All kinds of artwork lives on my once plain white walls that I've made my canvas: graffiti, paint, chalk, anything else you could think of that writes.

Also, occasional patches of writing sit next to some of the blotches of color. The plain clock that clashes with the artwork reads 3:04.

I dash up my creaky stairs and straight into the bedroom at the top. I struggle to pull of my high boots until I throw them into the corner of my room and peel off my white tights.

I then change into black knit tights and tall leather booties after rummaging through my wardrobe.

Leaving the top half of my outfit on, I grab my camera from my dresser along with the sketchbook and pencil.