Of course she would be born to two people such as them. Two people with no set aim- just to be successful, and hip and cool, in no definitive way except for what generic society tells them. These would be her parental units, this woman that flitters around with her red red hair and her French manicured nails and her marc Jacobs ballet flats – so fashionably cool, yet self absorbed with her haute couture beatnik style, this man with his unwrinkled skin and slicked back hair and his Armani trench coat- the epitome of a diluted Patrick bateman. She owned a salon spa. He was a CEO. And god forbid these people procreated and produced another offspring. This little pile of flesh, sack of bones was the two of them melted together. The determined one with her cold brown eyes and her straight red hair; she was wholly concered with being the first, the best and the most important. She was concerned about having the best shoes, clothes and manicure. If she was stupid, things would be so much easier, but she received the best of the recombinant dna and was brilliant. This is not to say that Missy Messy wasn’t. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ These people seemed so opposite from her, but in actually fact they were magnified facets of herself (or was she the compilement of pieces of them). They all were grotesquely abnormal in their own right, perhaps on the borderline of being slight psychotic, and this, this is exactly what strung them together. As much as she hated to admit it, in her own way, she was actually cordial with these people. These people that were so different from her. These people that would eat their own shit to get ahead, get on top and be the best. These people that shared similar chunks of her dna.