Who told you life was fair?

That unmistakable Virginia Slim smoldering lazily between fingers, tipped with long and immaculate talons covered in the dark, ambiguous shade of Rouge Noir, the heavy-lidded sapphire eyes rimmed expertly in grey kohl, the smoke curling sensuously around lush lips that still bear smudges of wineberry from last evening, she stares into the dawn of twilight with an air of insolent defiance.

Cheap pink wine in plastic held to a visage which takes on the semblance of badly kneaded dough thrown around on rough pavement, nostrils staring back at the world like a small pair of worn-out sockets, polo shirt a trashy shade of tangerine clashing loudly with badly-dyed, heavily teased, blonde streaks. The slack features take on an unsightly sheen under the unforgiving glare of sunlight. Her stare reflects her desperation far beyond any provocation.

Decadence clearly looks better on some people than on others