Chapter Two-Trash Dolls of Upper Manhattan

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Part Two

Yes, we're Trash Dolls.

The symptom of a successive, if perverse idea of dolling up. Well, not going into the club scene thing; not the Princess-like perverse like idea of societal freezing; not the mind-tripping malaise of distress feeding; not the psychotic infractions that some Popularity Rulers do to show they don't care if they tread on sorority girls' emotional toll; not to delay their happiness when others are very unhappy; not to relate to their own objective taste of self loathing for others who they rip to pieces by studying their dresses, their high-heeled shoes, their make up; their lipstick; their nail polish on their finger nails; their toe polish that was splattered in a rush because they're late for a date; their increased terror that they failed to please their friends because they didn't belong...and so on and on.

***

Nothing happened.

Unless we decided to go clubbing.

And use fake ID's.

But we didn't have fake ID's.

And now as we saw the new group of Trash Dolls...we waited for the sparks to fly. There was no telling why they wanted to dress older.

Yet, some girls wanted to because their self esteem was so low that their boyfriends treated them like shit...and they enjoyed being victims of abuse.

And they weren't the kind of Popularity Rulers we liked to see...because they always ended up in the same cycle of abuse...and it always ended up badly for them.

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