til i hear it from you [bay/day]

So, I've finally arranged a meeting with this supposed "super fan" who has been stealing my style and my fans... and honestly? I'm fearing for my life. Who knows what this whore is capable of? I mean, if she's basing her entire career of off someone as unhinged as me, then surely she is unstable enough to, like, knock a rhinestone loose from my vajazzle or something. I know I am, and I am the blueprint, after all.

I've made sure to get the power dynamics of this meeting like, in my favour. She's coming to my office, she will be sitting in a small, fold-up chair whilst I am in a freshly upholstered throne-esque designer piece and she will have to raise her hand if she wishes to speak. Is it a bit too much? I don't think so. If she's seriously serious about seriously copying me, she'll be living to serve someone who she idolises.

As she should! Honestly, as she should. I paved the path her feet walk on, so really, it's the least she can do.

There's a buzz on the phone and I get my assistant to answer.

"She will see you now." He says, his lifeless voice resembling the grating sound of a washboard or some washed up pop-stitute who is clinging to the crumbs of her career via some sorry residency. He slams the phone down and waltzes towards the door.

It opens and there she is: tall, brunette, wearing an outfit I've already worn, and worn better, might I add. I can smell her perfume and it's not anything I'd wear, in fact, it seems to have undertones of... green. It smells green. And I don't know if this is my 'coming out' as someone with synaesthesia or whatever, but one thing about me: green is the devil's colour.

You know why grass is green? Because it's growing from hell. At least, that's what my now dead, monk uncle once told me. Must be some sort of religious proverb.

Her perfume is not the only thing which sticks out to me, because the other thing I immediately notice is something quite literally sticking out: those toes. Why would anyone wear an open toed shoe that does not fit? I get that being an artist is all about the struggle, but come on, I could write an entire album about how seeing those toes cling to those shoes is worse than any heartbreak a girl could ever feel. I won't do that though, but if she's lucky, I'll maybe set up a donations page online to try and fund a pair of blood bottom heels.

Only if she's lucky, though. I only do charity when there are media outlets around and there's no way I'm going to willingly be photographed with her.

I smile at her, well, if you can call it a smile. It's more like I've just grit my teeth and opened my mouth to show them off. My assistant takes her coat and I give him a nod. I'll be sending that to the lab for testing because there's no way someone of her status is wearing real mink. I gesture for her to sit down in the crappy chair, careful not to extend my arm too much to attract her bad aura. My chakras are healed and I don't need anything threatening my sphere of gorgeous peace.

"Such a nice dress," I say, leaning back into my throne, eyeing her from across the desk. Of course, I'm lying. It looks like someone died in it just yesterday. "So... so... so-so to finally meet you!"