A Modern Day Fairytale…

July 4, 2016 7:08pm Published by Jules Smith in The Art Philosopher 35 Comments

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My Mother has insisted that I write a happy story.

 
I’m here as narrator, to tell you a beautiful, modern day tale. Well, the beginning of one. I can continue if my audience wishes this to be a novella….

Once upon a time (because twice makes it repetitive and thrice leaves us yawning) in a land somewhere lodged between our imagination and our delusions, there lived a beautiful, young girl. Of course, our heroines are always beautiful and never disfigured or hit with the ugly stick. She had long, golden hair, rich in depth with hints of caramel courtesy of L’OREAL 7.3 and the cappuccino wash her hairdresser weaved in. Well, if anyone was worth it, she was. Her eyes were big and round like that of a startled deer and the bluest of blues akin to a Mediterranean sky in the height of summer. Some thought it was down to the coloured contacts, luxury fibre eyelashes and her addiction to amphetamines but it wasn’t like that; she was a natural with just a soupçon of aid from the lip fillers, Botox and biannual face peels. Her figure had an hour glass seem woefully lacking with sensual curves that would make Jessica Rabbit puke with envy. Of course, Daddy had paid handsomely for her double D, pert chesticles in an attempt to save her from social anxiety and they vastly improved her Instagram following. Her waist, so slender, the high school beef cake could get both his hands around it. Of course, the torso shaping corset helped to keep her pencil thin and even though she could hardly breathe or swallow her undressed, rocket leaf salad when wearing it, her sacrifice didn’t go unnoticed. Fainting was an art form and often attracted new, chivalrous admirers and so much more attention.

Dyamontay, the name of our beautiful heroine, because naturally she had a one off, made up moniker that nobody could spell or even believe. She told everyone it was of French origin even though the only French word she knew was Paris which was the name of her biggest, female, high school competitor. However, Paris remained a size 2 despite being proficient at bulimia and could never match the perfect size zero of Dyamontay. In class or social photos, our heroine would make sure she stood next to Paris on purpose for digital proof of her superiority, and after two whole days of water dieting of course. It wasn’t long before the stress of it all got to Paris, who ended up being carted off to rehab with a serious twitch and an expensive addiction, poor thing.

However, Dyamontay had so many friends it didn’t matter. Her Facebook boasted 2472 of them and her twitter almost double that. Her popularity increased on a daily basis particularly with her in depth posts on the latest designer heels, dressed up pugs and celebrity knowledge. She read all the glossy magazines on a weekly basis, even though it tired her out dreadfully, she’d heard somewhere that reading broadened the mind, whatever that meant. Her dedication to to the important things in life clearly set her aside from her peers. Dyamontay didn’t have time for any other hobbies apart from calorie counting, the art of precision face contouring and practising her most flattering angles and poses in the mirror. Her less attractive friends tried to overcompensate with wit and intellect but they never got as many likes as she did. Boys didn’t care for that sort of thing in her opinion and she wondered why some girls worked so hard to be inappropriate rather than pretty; still, not everyone can be a princess. Boys preferred it when you flicked your hair and laughed at everything they said, even if you didn’t understand them. Most young men followed her around, catering to her feminine whims and offering their help when she found things difficult like heavy, unnecessary text books, bumpy tarmac that played havoc with her Laboutin’s and simple multiplication. Every which way she turned, a young stallion would be there to facilitate her needs and desperately try to accommodate her. All bar one, a rather naturally handsome guy who studied way too much to be normal and had a rather biting wit which completely baffled her. His name was Tom which she found dreadfully boring and chose to call him Tommy. He clearly wasn’t from money with such an unimaginative name and by the simple High Street clothes he wore. Still, it amazed her how well he could pull off a peasant style look with such confidence. He would generally ignore her if she spoke to him or provoke her with complicated questions she didn’t know how to answer. He was clearly mentally challenged and only went on to prove her theory by dating a girl with mousy hair and cankles.

Though this boys lack of sense irritated her to the point of madness, her goal was set on landing Bradley, the high school football star and beefcake, as expected. This didn’t prove a challenge in any way at all as Bradley seemed overly fascinated by the buttons on her pretty blouses every single day. Two simple dates passed by where she pretended to be interested in football and he pretended to know the colour of her eyes and by date three she found herself locked in the bedroom of a beach front mansion, at a high class party. Dyamontay found herself to be a little bit tipsy on the two bellini’s she’d imbibed but knew the level of expectation to keep her beau.

Whilst she had no experience on snake handling she’d made the time to study the art by coming across the mysterious collection of videos she’d found on her Fathers computer when she was looking for his bank balance. It must have been Daddy’s secretary that put them on there when she worked overtime at weekends when Mommy went on one of her many, ‘Ladies days’ and ‘Tennis tournaments’. She looked the sort that didn’t have breeding and her Daddy was often having to take her off in private to have a word with her. He really was far too accommodating.

The animalistic antics that she viewed had terrified her somewhat and made her feel exceptionally nauseous, putting her off the 12 vegetable, lose weight faster, smoothie she usually had as a treat but Dyamontay knew these things were important in order to snag the deal long term. She also knew that just being her meant that half the battle was already won and the situation would likely to be over rather quickly.

Bradley didn’t waste any time fumbling around with her assets which had no effect but to irritate her when he inadvertently dislodged the ultimate lift, bra tape that kept her looking glorious in her backless dress. Thankfully, getting past the high waisted, tummy tuckers would be almost impossible for him since he had fingers the size of sausages. She’d even broken a nail herself getting the darn things on and had to call for an emergency manicure. Dyamontay made it clear to Bradley that she wanted to take things slowly and one step at a time. He didn’t seem to be paying much attention to her voiced opinion and merely grunted, pretty much like the men on the videos, as he continued to work out how a halter neck undid. She removed the super strength,anti bacterial hand sanitiser from her Valentino clutch and set it to one side. The mouth wash wouldn’t be needed until she had a rock on her finger, then and only then and on very rare special occasions, like needing a soft top Bentley, would that be necessary.

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First.

A name nobody could spell, believe or pronounce. What is *that*?

This tale is a peek inside the mind of the fairer sex. This insight could only be written by a woman, since I don’t think many fellas could identify the brands that are thrown at a breakneck pace.

Well exactly! Thats my point, surely you’ve come across such bonkers names in your neck of the woods. I mean, parents even name kids after your bridges!

Says the ex gigolo…look, you should be happy I’m writing this cynical chick lit because I’m helping males learn what to avoid at all costs. You’re welcome. 🙂

Nope, this will not be a happy story unless the characters start turning into frogs pretty soon. If Dyamontay meets a crazy-eyed fellow called Dynamitey it could end with a bang that not even her corset could prevent!

Remember, Mr. Gorilla Bananas, that this is MY version of happy. I mean, I can make them turn French if you think it will add the necessary, lacking romance but I think it will lose its edge. However, Dynamitey is a total winner!

“Dynamitey!” HAHAHAHAH!

I know – absolutely priceless. I can feel this going south in a black comedy way. I like that. 🙂

Hey! Watch the negative connotation of “south.” Culturist!

Haha! I hear ya, English slip of the tongue there!

“Well, if anyone was worth it, she was.” You are a comic genius, my dear. But, Dyamontay isn’t French? I could swear we knew a stripper with that name who swore she was from Marssay… Oh, never mind. Brilliant work. Very happy so far. Can’t wait to see how it turns out. But if Dyamontay slips to a size 2, we’re bailing. That would just plunge too far into tragedy!

I know, I’m wasted, I should be at Butlins or something.

Oh from Marssay, you say? Ooh la flippin la! Hahaha!

Yeah but it would be funny if she put a few pounds on and couldn’t get in her corset anymore and suddenly began to binge eat on Denny’s breakfasts. This could get proper dark and nasty until she cracks. Oh wait, I forgot. I’m supposed to be trying my hand at happy. 🙂

The startling thing is, I’m rather liking those shoes the more I look at them…..

Exactly why I would suggest an additional character: mortal enemy of Dyamontay, female, perhaps a size 6, with a much better understanding of men and a more charitable view. In the end, she wins by getting the shoes, and perhaps the guy.

True shoe story: Grunt daughter went to high school with a Dyamontay-type girl friend whose boyfriends got her involved in ways to make enormous amounts of cash from her good looks and dancing skills long before she was old enough for university. Before long, fun girl was actually making pron movies and escorting wealthy men.

Once, our daughter dropped by the “dancer’s” house to visit and found her mother busy moving all of fun girl’s belongings out to the street and puzzling over what to do with the enormous amount of cash she found among her stripper clothes and shoes.

I’m not sure what mom decided about the cash, but she insisted that our daughter have her pick of the many beautiful stripper shoes as a memento. When daughter got home to us, she showed us the shoes which seemed to have never been worn, but daughter assured us that they had probably been worn “while she was on her back.” Daughter was never as thin as fun girl, but she now has a beautiful blonde daughter of her own, and she came away as the winner, with the shoes and all, from the whole sordid, dark story.

Of course, it’s possible that “fun girl” is really the winner in this true story, after all. I don’t know what happened to her. She may be the billionaire governor of Barbados by now, with an entire mansion full of shoes. I’m not very good at this storytelling business. That’s why I’m glad you’re the expert!

Ooh, interesting story! Maybe fun girl is at Hefner’s house?
Well I hope the Mother took the cash and spent it wisely. I’m glad your daughter didn’t get lured into Fun girl’s (lets call her Eliza Down) world. However, I don’t blame her for nabbing some shoes. Honestly, there’s something alluring about slutty shoes – I have loads. Some I can only wear for going out to sit down – I said SIT down not LIE down! I couldn’t possibly walk in them for fear of a serious face pavement accident. However, if I have a taxi to the restaurant/bar and back again, only having to take minimal steps, out they come!

Thankfully, now I’ve adopted the position of English cowgirl, I have sensible bewwwts.

Ha ha I love it cakes, she’s a proper madam will she turn into a fairy or even a plain Jane, see what I did there cakes x

Hahaha! I see what you did there, cakes! Maybe fairy parties….:P

Dyamontay is a name that could only belong to a black person. Just saying. Other than that, the story seems to be a happy one about a girl’s search for self actualization in a world that sets very precise standards for same.

There was no discussion of scarring from hesitation cuts on her wrists…though.

Absolutely, Larry! Well spotted. I never said she was white… Having golden hair and blue eyes don’t mean shit in this day and age!

Oh yes, I like the self harming part, that works…it’s so hard to stay on the happy track…..;)

Very cheerful so far Jules. The very definition of modern romance. I have a feeling that young sausage fingers is going to unravel the mysteries of her many layers of armor. Would be a pity if she mistook the hand sanitizer for the mouthwash wouldn’t it?

Thank you, Tracy! Nice to know I’m succeeding. Thing is, if I could go dark it would be so much better. My Mother just doesn’t understand me. I don’t do Unicorns, fairy dust and rainbows very well. Still, challenges and all…

Oh it could happen! In America, I brushed my teeth with cortisone cream instead of toothpaste. Three times. YES, THREE TIMES. How stupid? The tube was the same colour, it wasn’t my fault. I’m not good in the morning.

Umm the cheerful bit was a little tongue in cheek. It’s already a tad dark…which is why I like it. Sorry Jules’ mom…lol

Oh?… damn it, I really thought I was painting rainbows….;)

Hahaha OMG this is so hilarious, Jules! Would love to know how it ends.

Well thank you, Dee! You’ve always got on board with my humour. What does that say about you? It says you’re a proper, modern day, cynical chick. ‘cept you have a lot more finesse than me 🙂

i must have missed the mouthwash lyric in “Single Ladies.”

you’re much better at names than i am.

these are the two weeks when “playing tennis” isn’t a euphemism for anything.

i’ve come across one word on my travels from both men and women that seems to cure everything: redbottoms *)

I think it’s somewhere after the line “Now put your hands up”

Quite! Playing tennis is about playing tennis this week. Unless you’re Djokovic. Go Federer.

A man who knows his shoes….*)

“that tiebreak was crazy”—Roger Federer, 2016 *)

I know! I hope he gets past the next hurdle and seed slayer. *)

OMGosh, you are sooo good at this, please keep the story going!

Thank you so much, Zilla. I will do so, just cos you asked so flippin nicely. 🙂

Okay, let’s go in-depth here… Let’s see… A land somewhere lodged between our imagination and our delusions… Wait a minute. I know exactly where that is: Bora!

A soupçon of aid from the lip fillers… dare I ask?

Digital proof… does that even exist, I wonder. I’d go and do a bit of calorie counting if I were able to count to a thousand. Just saying it’s more like a day-time job.

Every which way she turned, a young stallion would be there to facilitate her needs…. Old stallions, too, I suspect. No, not me. I’m not old.

Tommy… Good one, Jules.

Lots of people can pull off a peasant style look with confidence these days. They call it fashion, and it boils down to a pair of shamelessly deconstructed skinny jeans. Yes.

The art of snake handling? Does it involve hissing and biting?

Great tale, Jules. I nearly fell off my couch.

Blue Heaven….Bora is REAL! We just imagine being there and delude ourselves into thinking it won’t be long until we’re actually there. Keep that Bora fund going and don’t stop believing! I nearly burst into song there…

Not those lips, sweetie 😉

Old stallions are still young stallions – everyone remains 15 years old in their heads.

Those damn peasant skinny jean wearers! But if you have cowboy bewwwts that’s ok. Ask Tommy..

Doesn’t all snake handling involve some sort of hissing and biting?

Don’t you go falling off couches now – I can’t be held responsible for my power from this far away. 🙂

I saw a big fat granny wearing skinny jeans with holes the size of my butt. I kept telling myself, ‘Don’t be so narrow-minded, Blue.’ No one was listening. I was too distracted. I’m not sure boots would’ve made it all good, though. 😀

On the subject of delusional….
Did you know that some people have mirrors – just like the ones in Snow White but corrupted by the fanciful craziness of the modern world. Oh yes, Blue, it’s true. These mirrors tell their owners that they look like grace personified in their tightest of tight jeans and and to go out into the world and show their holey holes of holiness and let the people be envious. Be thankful we are just at this stage and not at the Emperors New Clothes…;)

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