Trend-walking

Already melting like wax, the party queens of V.I.P.-scented luxury lives with their brain-botoxed, glued-together faces are melting apart. Here and there, no honest-to-goodness gaze can miss the exaggerated ass-grease-restored twilight, the lip-smacking fish-lips of their pleas, occasionally, if their attention is drawn, to save animals or humanity without ever knowing what they are talking about.

They gorge on indigestible sushi and Caesar salad by the sackful, because their bicep-bulging personal trainers in their telesmith diets have conveniently convinced them that it is preferable to flash the garlic popsie than the tank-cuff. In a sea of hair and skin, they will conquer any individually planned party where sex and sexual instinct rule instead of reason.

They curtsy in coercive situations, reduced to each other's palace-maids, hoping only that in return for their free services in kind, a kindly Someone will not be in debt and will take them up with their idiocy. They think, foolishly, that their own salvation depends on the satisfaction of their servile needs, and that there can be no prideful, rat-like joy left to bring back their worthy concord, their petty ambitions, in the twinkling of an eye.

They would try for a few more years, with thumbs up, grinning, and grimacing, the swinging politics that seemed so uninspiring, and if necessary, if not, they would balance between fame and cheap careers: in a long cathartic, even the throwaway cloud-flakes of a life that had been wasted, because they had only chased after real happiness, - but could not get it. They perished with selfish, insatiable Nirvana-passion!