District 7 :: Eugenia Lisbonne :: WIP

My mother named me Eugenia because she fucking hates me.

I'm just kidding. We're cool. I mean, you can't possibly have a child and name it any rendition of the name "Gene" without the least bit of contempt for the little sack of shit, but my mom and I are totally cool now, even if she maybe hated me when I made her lose her six pack and the elasticity of her love tunnel. Monday nights we make soup and talk shit. It's a weekly tradition that I look forward to if I have nothing else to do.

However, I've always been one to believe that one's name is their brand, y'know, Love? You'd be surprised by how much something as out-of-your-hands as your basic name can influence the rotation of the world beneath you. Like a bad nose or being outed as getting turned on by trees. You could have an hour long conversation with a person, show them the skeleton key to your basilica of fears and tears and terrors, but once you give them your name your whole impression is haunted by the ghosts of phantoms you'll never meet. You have the same name as their childhood best friend and now do nothing but glow pink when they expect the rouge of youth. You have the same name as the father that got scared and now your face looks like a 2am empty bed. You have an ugly name. You have a wild name. You must be adventurous. You must be shy. I bet you're smart. I bet I can depend on you.

I go by Genie.

Oh, do you grant wishes? Hahaha, my hair is oily and I have a paralyzing fear of rejection.

No, I do not. I don't have time to make your dreams come true. Plus, as a general rule of thumb, I don't generally waste my time on anyone who smells like pine and incest. So, the overwhelming majority of the District.

But I do have a few wishes of my own.

wish i

Look, I'm pretty as hell. Which, coincidentally, is where I'm from. This is a matter of fact. Like the facts of life that the sun is hot, water is wet, and kitten heels are not okay. Roses are red, violets are fucking violet, and Genie is pretty. That's just the way it is.

It's always been that way, excluding a brief hiatus of my beauty from ages 9 to 12 but let's be fair (because I'm all about fairness, look at me) no one looked good at that age. But once I got over the greasy mess that was that transitional period, I came out fly as fuck. My lips are almost laughably welcoming considering how much I don't want anyone to approach me, my nose is cuter than any infant I have ever seen, and my eyes are stained glass windows, purely decorative, considering I don't have a soul.

But if some antique deity was simply handing out favors because he felt like it or whatever, I'd definitely ask for boobs. No question.

Wait Genie, aren't you going to be a famous Capitol fashion designer in the future? Don't they sell boobs on every street corner with like, ice lattes and newspapers?

I'm sure they do. But, dear friend, a large bust is not the endgame, but merely a means to the end. I need a pumpkin patch to propel myself to the Capitol level.

Where I am now, the only boys I interest are the superficial-level lumberjacks who see how cute I am and want me to be their lumberwife and push out their thick-headed lumberbabies. That, and boys who have "taken a sincere interest in how passionate I am about fashion and escaping Seven" yet wear nothing but flannel and overalls. (Once, a boy at school came in wearing flannel overalls so I faked "lady problems" so I could lie down for two hours in the health office.) However, my bestfriend, Emmanuelle (who I totally did not approach simply on a basis that she had a trendy name and appeared visibly half literate) literally has enough boob for herself and two me's. And she excites boys. They look at her the way they never do at me. They look at me like I could satisfy some kind of craving they have at that instance in time. Like I'm just what they needed. Like I'll fit into their blank spaces. They look at Emmy like they didn't realize they were hungry but now the hunger is all there is. Like they'd happily follow her through hell confident they wouldn't even burn. That's the effect she has on people. I even get that way sometimes. Like everything she has to say is the most interesting thing ever said, whereas everything I say I sketch and redraft and flesh out about two thousand times before I let it leave my lips. I'm like a carefully tuned music box, but she's a siren.

Wait, but maybe it's Emmy's personali--

Nah, it's definitely the boobs.

wish ii

Hmmm