PS lol at having your cameraman blow your cover and announce to the world that a supahmoddle had to pay out of her own pocket to book her own shoots.
I’m convinced it’s an LA bitch move.
POV: You hate Tess. Her checks clear but being in her presence is almost wholly intolerable in every single way. You can’t talk shit because your industry is an incestuous snakepit populated by catty bitches and malignant narcissists, and the only thing worse than being one of those is talking shit about a client. So you stay quiet because you can’t afford to be blacklisted by whoever still listens to Tess, otherwise you’ll end up back in your backwater nothingburger of a flyover town.
You cope by pretending to “yassss qweeeen” as you reveal to everyone that Tess isn’t being paid for this shoot because she’s paying out of pocket for the sake her own vanity. You hope it comes off as an accidental slip that Tess will forgive because she’s stupid and easily distracted by what she assumes to be a compliment. You were just applauding a Strong, Kweer, Independent Supahmoddle. You had no idea. You’re so sorry.
You rearrange your features into a facsimile of a smile and hope your stomach holds for another hour in that cheap bordello shoot location that would stink of musty synthetic fabrics and stale potpourri if your nostrils weren’t already completely filled with the stench of Tess’ unwashed, yeasty, ingrown pussy under a too-thin scrap of prostitute lingerie.
You went to art school for this. You’re in debt for this. You try not to feel homesick for a place you used to deride as out of touch or too rural. You adjust the focus on your camera and pull up the corners of your mouth, noticing that once again they’d begun to droop into a grimace of disgust.
@NoReturn I’ve made no secret of the fact that I am a California native. There is a fair bit I don’t like about my home, most of it having to do with LA glitterati, the Bay Area gentrifiers as well as corruption and over-regulation. Among other things. That said, there are so many of us here who absolutely love our home state and are nothing like Tess or her hangers-on. There is so much more to California than Long Beach, the Madonna Inn, or Palm Springs. It is a geographically diverse wonderland with a seemingly limitless number of hobbies, activities, amenities, and landmarks with which to pass your days without ever coming in contact with people like Ryann Hoven.
And, as I have said before, she ain’t local. She‘s basically an amalgamation of stereotypes walking around inside a pile of old tires, nothing more than a homunculus. Imagine some fat tub of mayo moving to Texas and buying giant cowboy boots and a ten-gallon hat and walking around with a lasso on her belt ceaselessly screeching out “HOWDY!” That is to a real Texan as Tess is to a real Californian.
