Glamorama

Satire: Irony, sarcasm, or caustic wit used to attack or expose folly, vice, or stupidity.

A wave of panic washes over me as I realize the seats in the bus are maroon and I’m wearing an orange shirt I picked up from an overpriced Urban Outfitters. I say a quick prayer that no one I know is on the bus since color coordination is not my strong suit anyways. Nikki and I have to stand, which raises my already soaring blood pressure, and we wonder if our lives should be filmed and put on TV, though it’s clear that we already know they should. After the first stop a seat opens up and I find myself clawing my way towards it, afraid someone might get there first. I get the seat and begin to inspect the sandals of the girl sitting next to me, finally concluding that they are generally acceptable but she needs a pedicure asap. People crowd onto the bus, and every sentence starts with, “Oh my god” and ends with “and shit.” This happens without exception. I’m replaying last night’s Laguna Beach over and over in my head but am distracted when a girl gets pushed forward from behind me and her hand brushes over my carefully disheveled hair. Quickly she begins to apologize and I look back, unable to hide an involuntary sneer, and hiss, “Akuna matata.” Some guy is standing right in the aisle, right in my face, and I reach out to feel the fabric of his shirt, which appears to be 70% cotton, 30% polyester. I see a girl who I think is a model and try to get her attention, but she’s generally not interested and I mutter, “your loss, honey.” I start to black out and throw up a little in my mouth. After thirty minutes of campus orbit we escape from the infernal, ugly bus thing and all agree that we shouldn’t have to ride public transportation; it’s so pedestrian. The idea of getting limo service like the girls on My Sweet Sixteen and calling it My Sweet Tuesday Thursday Morning Class is tossed around with excitement. We can’t stop saying how hot it is but then the three of us start to sing Wicked show tunes, crying out that we just “want to be popular.” My voice though trails off when I begin to panic at the prospect of not having any new facebook messages. We get to the dorm and I plop down in the chair and desperately grab the latest issue of Us Magazine and am comforted by the prospect of Jen finally moving on but knowing all too well that Brad is the best she’ll ever get. Megan pops in One Tree Hill disc five episode three and the day becomes generally bearable, even though Haley has gotten a tattoo of Nathan’s basketball number (23) which makes me more angry and emotional than anything else in the past two weeks. I can’t stop writing and am beginning to feel like the ghost of the person I wish I was.