the fixer-upper (300)

remove the curtains from the windows, scrub the glass until it turns to diamond – so finely etched you’d think it was done by laser. replenish the curtain, dye bleeding through water and polluting porous other fabrics.

this, they call it, is a beginning.

move on to the body now: sweep away the dull, dingy exterior. replace with deceitful outfittings, expensively-priced purchased at forgotten name-stores. collect whimsy in a dozen shades and try them all on, add them all to an online cart for overpriced delivery; deliberate first though, pretend to be unsure for charm’s sake.

lay down your vision of this before you, blueprints and sketches colliding into one portfolio of how to create perfection in fifteen short steps.

(short is a lie; it was never going to be easy)

repair the surroundings, work over the view from every angle until satisfied. be aware ahead of time, satisfaction here is impossible to attain – there’s always pretending. take five steps back and jump two ahead, take shortcuts and promise there’s nothing dishonest in it. reassure yourself that the end result will be worthwhile; count every step and every distraction like they’re gold.

(gold-plated, certainly; how else do you justify the expense?)

clamber through a forest and call it inspiring; rechange your mind a dozen times and say every last one of them is what you want. realize that it’s true, you want all of them and there’s never enough time in the day to take them all. collect them all anyway, recollect your sanity when the bills come in.

remember when they said it couldn’t be done and it was. tell yourself it justifies the means, promise that something’s going to be different from some point on.

rethink the whole thing; you always were a good liar.

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