18 short character studies
Her head is small and looks like the head of a child athlete, a gymnast or a figure skater. A t-shirt, a green ADIDAS windbreaker hint at suburban life in this ridiculously overstylized urban setting. She wears her hair in a ponytail; you wonder what depravities she knows that belie her frame.
She is a sheepdog in pink, with pink under her eyes when she pulls her hair back.
He has tattoos of fashionable, Sailor Jerry-style birds swooping across his wrists. What kind of man, you ask yourself, has pictures of birds on his arms. Even fashionable birds. Especially fashionable birds. He has Typewriter print on hios bicep. Rise Above. You've only seen your own tattoos through silver gelatin and reflective glass. You wonder if he draws inspiration from his. It's probably a stupid suggestion.
She is Hispanic, and will not speak unless spoken to.
The room is cold and she wears shorts. She folds her right knee in her arm and brushes her hair over it. Her hair is thick and unmanageable. You forget that she is Asian, you wil never see her face.
She is rail thin with indents on either side of her spine on her lower back. She chews on pens and has too many people. She thinks of herself as a nerd; it is a crutch and an excuse, left over from high school. She is uncomfortable in social situations, and walks as if everything will damage her. She reminds you of your sister at 13, and you wince at the thought that she is attractive. You shudder as you add ...to older men. Her hair was bleached badly, into varying shades of light brown. She's let it grown out but is afraid to cut it down, and not have long hair. 'Don't Panic' has been neatly written on the side of her right sneaker. You nod as she walks past. Her nervousness makes you nervous. She has a nice belt.
He looks like someone you would call Moose, like that guy from Archie. Big, a jock's sense of fashion. Big cheeks and freckles. He bites his nails at the same time as you. He has a speech impediment and asks questions as soon as he feels confused without waiting for context. It gives you the impression that he's slower than he actually is.
He's black and short, with beady eyes and braces. He has a thermal shirt under a green Polo. The color of his tattoos stand out surprisingly well, but they look unfinished. You are jealous of his arms. They are well defined. Yours are not.
She is not fat but has a little pouch under her chin that she will never be able to get rid of. Her dress is brown and grey in little corduroy zigzags. It doesn't look like a dress and matches her toenails well. They are copper the way Crayola sees copper and you saw copper as a child. Purple barettes hold her hair in tiny pigtails. She has puffy cheeks and an overbite, and when she bites her lip, it gets your dick hard.
She wears a tiedyed shirt that doesn't match her makeup. A skull crossing a river under a full moon. The Grateful Dead. The moon is also a skull. It is a little too big for her. She has a fine-cut Punky Brewster face with dark freckles and 420 eyes. You wonder if the shirt came off some boy's floor in a mad dash this morning.
He is tall, with buzzed hair. He wears a cool t-shirt of a hardcore band you've never heard but imagine to be shit. His tattoos are vibrant and indistinguishable, half obscured by his sleeves. There are vines, green as green can be, a skull, something red and something blue. He breaks character with an orange Livestrong bracelet. You don't know what orange stands for, or why everybody is wearing them. You hate yourself that much more for not looking more like him in a room full of beautiful women.
Her eyes are sunk deep and you fearshe's anorexic. She looks like a skeleton. Looking like a skeleton makes her look older than her years. She has shoulder-length hair with excellent highlights. She has fat lips and big teeth. Looking at her makes you feel guilty about the way that you look at women.
She is a semigoth gypsy with bits of orange in her hair, cut herself into some sort of trendy shag a million different lengths. She has fat lips and a pugnose, she's pale the way people equate with sickness. She looks like Fairuza Balk with the curvesa ironedout. She'd be incredibly ugly if she wasn't so beautiful. She knows exactly what to accentuate, and how to make the rest work. She chews gum and rolls her eyes when she's focused. She is the type of girl you have trouble talking to.
She would look better naked than anyone else in the room, than anyone you've seen all day even, but she's hidden under her school's hoodie, and nondescript jeans. She's blonde and not too thin. Her hand rests on her forehead so you don't realize that she has the right kind of eyes and really white teeth. She looks bored and you wonder whether she realizes how much more beautiful she is than just another short girl with big tits.
She has curly hair. She looks like the giggly cousin of every girl you've ever dated. She likes romantic comedies, snack food, and bands you you don't respect.
He is fat. Fatter than you. This is important to you. He's bigger than you but wears it better. His shirt is Tupac's face at 5X scale. He hyas a diamond earring and doesn't say much. You respect him without warrant or qualifiers.
He is skinny and wears black velcro shoes. His face is pointed. He was created with all lines converging at a single vanishing point somewhere on the floor. He's olive-complected with ace scarsand small emeralds in his eyes. He resembles a weasel. A caricature of a weasel with too-big lips. None of his clothes carry brandings or insignias. He has two silver rings on one hand. He does not talk, possibly because he has noibody to talk to. He is cold, tired, and closed in on himself. He reminds you of people from gradeschool, whose names you've forgotten.
Youy are hairy and dark and big. There's only one other fat guy in the room and he wears it better than you. You wish you were as slick as a black man. You're leaning back, and constatly trying to recalibrate your posture. You're wearing a shirt you stole from your father, with short sleeves that show off the scars on your right arm. You are cold and making a list.
She is a sheepdog in pink, with pink under her eyes when she pulls her hair back.
He has tattoos of fashionable, Sailor Jerry-style birds swooping across his wrists. What kind of man, you ask yourself, has pictures of birds on his arms. Even fashionable birds. Especially fashionable birds. He has Typewriter print on hios bicep. Rise Above. You've only seen your own tattoos through silver gelatin and reflective glass. You wonder if he draws inspiration from his. It's probably a stupid suggestion.
She is Hispanic, and will not speak unless spoken to.
The room is cold and she wears shorts. She folds her right knee in her arm and brushes her hair over it. Her hair is thick and unmanageable. You forget that she is Asian, you wil never see her face.
She is rail thin with indents on either side of her spine on her lower back. She chews on pens and has too many people. She thinks of herself as a nerd; it is a crutch and an excuse, left over from high school. She is uncomfortable in social situations, and walks as if everything will damage her. She reminds you of your sister at 13, and you wince at the thought that she is attractive. You shudder as you add ...to older men. Her hair was bleached badly, into varying shades of light brown. She's let it grown out but is afraid to cut it down, and not have long hair. 'Don't Panic' has been neatly written on the side of her right sneaker. You nod as she walks past. Her nervousness makes you nervous. She has a nice belt.
He looks like someone you would call Moose, like that guy from Archie. Big, a jock's sense of fashion. Big cheeks and freckles. He bites his nails at the same time as you. He has a speech impediment and asks questions as soon as he feels confused without waiting for context. It gives you the impression that he's slower than he actually is.
He's black and short, with beady eyes and braces. He has a thermal shirt under a green Polo. The color of his tattoos stand out surprisingly well, but they look unfinished. You are jealous of his arms. They are well defined. Yours are not.
She is not fat but has a little pouch under her chin that she will never be able to get rid of. Her dress is brown and grey in little corduroy zigzags. It doesn't look like a dress and matches her toenails well. They are copper the way Crayola sees copper and you saw copper as a child. Purple barettes hold her hair in tiny pigtails. She has puffy cheeks and an overbite, and when she bites her lip, it gets your dick hard.
She wears a tiedyed shirt that doesn't match her makeup. A skull crossing a river under a full moon. The Grateful Dead. The moon is also a skull. It is a little too big for her. She has a fine-cut Punky Brewster face with dark freckles and 420 eyes. You wonder if the shirt came off some boy's floor in a mad dash this morning.
He is tall, with buzzed hair. He wears a cool t-shirt of a hardcore band you've never heard but imagine to be shit. His tattoos are vibrant and indistinguishable, half obscured by his sleeves. There are vines, green as green can be, a skull, something red and something blue. He breaks character with an orange Livestrong bracelet. You don't know what orange stands for, or why everybody is wearing them. You hate yourself that much more for not looking more like him in a room full of beautiful women.
Her eyes are sunk deep and you fearshe's anorexic. She looks like a skeleton. Looking like a skeleton makes her look older than her years. She has shoulder-length hair with excellent highlights. She has fat lips and big teeth. Looking at her makes you feel guilty about the way that you look at women.
She is a semigoth gypsy with bits of orange in her hair, cut herself into some sort of trendy shag a million different lengths. She has fat lips and a pugnose, she's pale the way people equate with sickness. She looks like Fairuza Balk with the curvesa ironedout. She'd be incredibly ugly if she wasn't so beautiful. She knows exactly what to accentuate, and how to make the rest work. She chews gum and rolls her eyes when she's focused. She is the type of girl you have trouble talking to.
She would look better naked than anyone else in the room, than anyone you've seen all day even, but she's hidden under her school's hoodie, and nondescript jeans. She's blonde and not too thin. Her hand rests on her forehead so you don't realize that she has the right kind of eyes and really white teeth. She looks bored and you wonder whether she realizes how much more beautiful she is than just another short girl with big tits.
She has curly hair. She looks like the giggly cousin of every girl you've ever dated. She likes romantic comedies, snack food, and bands you you don't respect.
He is fat. Fatter than you. This is important to you. He's bigger than you but wears it better. His shirt is Tupac's face at 5X scale. He hyas a diamond earring and doesn't say much. You respect him without warrant or qualifiers.
He is skinny and wears black velcro shoes. His face is pointed. He was created with all lines converging at a single vanishing point somewhere on the floor. He's olive-complected with ace scarsand small emeralds in his eyes. He resembles a weasel. A caricature of a weasel with too-big lips. None of his clothes carry brandings or insignias. He has two silver rings on one hand. He does not talk, possibly because he has noibody to talk to. He is cold, tired, and closed in on himself. He reminds you of people from gradeschool, whose names you've forgotten.
Youy are hairy and dark and big. There's only one other fat guy in the room and he wears it better than you. You wish you were as slick as a black man. You're leaning back, and constatly trying to recalibrate your posture. You're wearing a shirt you stole from your father, with short sleeves that show off the scars on your right arm. You are cold and making a list.
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