It is a travesty of justice. A tragedy in which good and evil lurk behind the grinning and the grieving of the masks.
Aubrey O' Day, you are the travesty in question.
Like an extra for The Hunger Games scenes set in the Capitol, she perverts beauty to possess a semblance of it. She cries out to the world that she is the best, but to make it true she first must destroy her betters. She sees them and in her rage she gains her strength.
And so this is my sorrow.
Sorrow like a sickness steals through me when I see Aubrey, with her slices of blue geode hanging from her neck, talking of brand messaging and intimidating ESL beauty queens with her angry blue gaze. Aubrey, you are dressed like a clown yet no one is smiling.
Pomtini as big as Crystal Light, you admitted that this was your concept.
Patricia, why did you not remember?
Dayana, Universe Goddess, you cannot stop smiling. In the genetic lottery of life, you have already won so many times over. You sit atop the undeniable riches of your bones, your skin, your eyes, your good sense, and even having only a tenuous grasp on this clunky Germanic tongue, you can say, "It was her ideas six times, but we only won twice."
Women, how do you forget? How do you forget the battles that you fight, you lose? The general who leads you is blind, her flaming hair flares out from a head full of ashes.
Debbie Gibson, in the fire of your vanity you are consecrated. If the spirit left you the moment you stopped singing of Pomtinis, that would be enough. It was all you ever wanted, to sing again. To be heard again. To let the crisp edge of your voice hit the note like the edge of a blade as you say "guilt-free pleasure, Crystal Light!" and your eyes are wild with remembering. The ghost of your youth marries you to the music and yet the consummation is empty. You embrace the clothes of a lover long dead, you smell the sweet perfume, and you are grateful. I will not chasten you.
The lateness of the rug man shamed Theresa. She had made a promise, and the promise was half broken. The streets of New York loomed around her, too tall. In Jersey, a table would have been upon the floor. The silverware would have been jostled in Jersey, where her brothers and cousins and in-laws are reflected, each face a mirror upon a mirror of family that she knows. But she is smaller in New York, the fealty of countless generations will not bow to her. The rugs came late, and she was shorn of her pride before her team. The broad eyes that stare in two directions did not see help coming from either horizon. She was humbled this day.
The two most beautiful women intertwined their fingers as Aubrey O'Day shamelessly pretended to weep. The wheels were turning in the thick painted potato of her head as she prepared to face Trump.
Her arguments, once presented, were mentally polished from crude sentiments, shivs she had carved in the prison of her mind. Next to her, Patricia and Dayana locked arms, locked eyes, like sisters parted only a little by time, the beauty reflected, the beauty admired. In their common language they spoke, an understanding that if they would lose, it would still be okay. They could only lose in the eyes of Aubrey O'Day, who saw only the present goals, and begged to stay mired in her diseased self image, her stagnant bath of self love. They would not stoop to conquer her. Her victory to them was as weightless as a butterfly, compared to the pyramids of glory each of them have erected in the hearts of all who know them, who have seen them in this show.
There is no more damaging human dynamic than the relationship between Lisa and Aubrey. Patricia sees it, and she throws herself from it as a bird throws itself from a tree when the ground trembles with an earthquake. The depth, the dark, she will not comprehend it.
Lisa mocks, pulling the mask of her face into furrows of scorn. And yet when she walks in the world, the face hangs limp, slack, like an un-ironed dress. She only knows the value of her expressions when she uses them to wound. It is a flag hoisted above the mutinous army of her rage, unthinkingly hoisting the colors out of habit, not pride.
Patricia is gone, you did not deserve her. Perhaps she was tired of the fight, perhaps she was embittered by the smallness, the narrowness of perception. As plutonium slept underground when cavemen made tools from rocks, so too did Patricia's talents sleep below the capabilities of her teammates. They have yet to comprehend her loss.
Also—I absolutely loved it when Clay said, and I quote, "You know the minute that girl came out of her momma's choch she reached for the stripper pole. Can I say that?" Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine that by halfway through Celebrity Apprentice, Clay Aiken would be my favorite. But he totally is.
– Which party would you rather have attended: the peach beach or the pomtini Debbie Gibson revival?
– Who the f-ck drinks mocktails?
– The men's party was kind of like a frat party on a dry campus, right?
– Is Aubrey evil or just vain?
– Who is your favorite Greek poet?