She cultivated enigmatic condescension as a way to play hard-to-get. Her manques fell over themselves to assuage her apparent contempt for their offerings and themselves. But she has become trapped. Her superiority grows ever more real - and so does the tawdriness in everything around her. Nothing pleases her any more. The world has become shabby.
Always hungry for experience she copied herself off a number of times. Her copies, feeling similar urges, did so too.
Her copies' personalities and preferences are also much like hers, crowding out her rivals and consigning those who prefer them to marginality and obscure eccentricity.
But being mere copies, the copies do express a continuum of similarity rather than utter authenticity. But somehow this is more frightening that nearly the same sentiments are expressed in the same way by near-identical women in variations of the same clothes (as decided by the copies who have infiltrated the fashion industry): an observer not knowing the origin of the copies might begin to suspect some kind of mass brain-washing.
She used to collect dolls. Specifically, she used to collect her brother's GI Joe dolls and put them to uses that they were not originally designed for. She thought it was funny that they were half the size of the Barbies her mother gave her. Somehow that seemed right.
She still collects dolls. These ones are taller on the outside at least.
She writes the names of men she wants to ensorcel in magic silver pen on the tips of her stiletto heels. When she walks the click click click of her progress pierces their hearts through with unutterable longing.
