Some Job In The Fashion Industry

She was a blonde woman with a pair of tits who came over from __ and did some job in the fashion industry. Like an editor or something else to do with magazines, although not an editor, because she wasn’t smart enough. Initially she had been a model, which really means that she walked around, looking pretty, which was no effort at all, and she was well paid for it, and that was enough for a time, but then she got older and needed to do other things, as the wildly popular models were a generation younger and her own generation seemed to be receding from view, replaced by succeeding waves of young women, also blonde, also with big tits, who were the same as she was at their age in every way, except the fashions were different and the cosmetic surgery was more refined in technique. And so she became a spokesperson or spokesmodel, she appeared on the television, giving her opinions on things, fashion, to start with, and then other things, and she seemed to be guest editor of magazines she had once caused to fly off the shelves in huge numbers, and of course, she made no money now, it was all to boost her profile, a profile which had once been so big that it cast a shadow on all of her supposed competition in the walking around in clothes industry. And she went on to social media, as you do, when you want to retain what prominence you have left, and to connect with new fans and understand new trends before they take hold, in order that she could appear to be one step ahead of the game. But she was bullied, of course. She was never strong and had found it difficult to cope when things went well and harder to cope when they went badly, and that was when she was riding high. By the time that the public had forgotten her covers and shows and launches it was harder, infinitely harder, to deal with a public turned mean by the anonymity of social media. All of which meant that she was a needy person, always had been, and would need, at a moment’s notice, her friends to fly to her side, and support her when some kind of bad thing came along to upset her always delicate equilibrium. As the years went by the number of friends she could call in the small hours to tell her problems and frantically promise self-harm if it ever happened again dwindled, and so when it finally happened there was one good friend, a __ __, and a few others, who had been considering distancing themselves from her, but who hadn’t got around to it yet, and these stricken individuals gathered outside her place when the television cameras assembled, and they wore their designer sunglasses and looked glamorous in their public grief and in their secret shame, and they comforted each other like they perhaps should have comforted their departed friend, who was their friend, they decided, all bitterness gone now, and they talked of how needy she had been. Of how much she needed contact and support and how difficult it was for her to live on her own and be the strong woman she had always wanted to be. The truth was that she needed others, that she couldn’t get things done without them, and that she had been unable to achieve anything on her own for many years, with the exception of the very last thing she ever did, which was to take the bottle of yellow pills and swallow them and calmly lie on the bed in her room and wait for the end. That was an achievement of which she could be genuinely proud, and something she had done on her own.

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Published in: on June 28, 2016 at 8:42 pm  Leave a Comment  

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