the |[scenery]| is so loud :: iggy; blitz

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“We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.” _Oscar Wilde A scream of rage catches in my throat, coming out as a muted snarl against the backs of my gritted teeth because as furious as I am, our greasy landlord’s already been down here twice this week for noise complaints, and the last thing I need is an eviction notice nailed to my door when I get home from work. Seething, I chuck the little plastic clamshell in my hand against the grimy bathroom mirror, stalking out into the living room with a murderous machine-gun rattle of high heels on old hardwood. “Really, Iggy? Really?” I snap, moving with deadly intent over to where she’s trussing herself into her work clothes. Tramp. Forget that I’m wearing almost exactly the same thing, all sequins and clinginess and painfully little left to the imagination. At least I manage to make it look classy. “Buy your own goddamn eyeshadow! You’ve been using mine again, and don’t even try to lie to me about it!” It’s a matter of principle, really. When you put two full-time burlesque dancers in a tiny basement apartment, there’s enough cosmetic material lying around to supply a small theater company for a year. The landlord’s bitched at us more than once that we leave a trail of glitter between our door and the front entrance. But in our world, touching a girl’s makeup is like reaching in and rifling around in her soul, which is why I’m out in our living room sniping angrily at my roommate instead of finishing getting ready when we have less than an hour before work. “Next time you steal my stuff, I’m kicking your gelatinous ass to the curb, understood?!” She’s my best friend in the entire world.