What’s the substitute for blood in the plastic universe? What really happens when an axe cuts in to dismember, for instance, a plastic hand? Does water come out of the wrist? Or does the hand just pop off and leave a hollow arm with no harm done, deep and pervasive emotional scarring aside?
I bet you’re wondering who could answer these deeply metaphysical inquiries.
Wonder no more, as the answers reside in the resident homicidal maniac of the plastic world, the one and only…*drum roll*…Barbie!
Shocker? No way, you know you saw it coming. Lose the denial. It’s true and we all know it.
It’s a well known fact that anybody who likes black coffee has the psychopath gene (Ken et al. 1969). Barbie, however, with her basic outward appearance, hid that part of her bitter (ha, get it? Cause she drinks coffee haha) personality from you through the façade of her sparkly pink thermoses…but what did you think was in them, spinach juice? Oh no…you’ve been deceived. Being lied to can never feel good, but hey, at least you’re alive right now. There are others who weren’t so lucky…
I was one of those lucky ones, albeit it was totally an accident that I peeked into her sparkly pink thermos that day and found out about her black coffee kink. Girl really drank 10 of them a day and pretended that all she did was intermittently fast in order to encourage eating disorders in other young girls. The audacity.
I used to look back and search for the answer as to why I didn’t notice sooner, how easily I could dismiss those dismembered body parts in our tub, the copious amount of blonde wigs in her closet… God, I now feel so ridiculous for having believed her when she said that it was just “The DreamHouse Life!” But I know now. That cursed affair that turns us all into fools, blind to murderous blonde babes: love. I loved her. Until everything became so clear – she really wasn’t who she said she was. I just loved the idea of her.
Still, it’s hard to let go of the past when you’ve loved someone for so long. Sometimes I think back to how her luscious, gorgeous hair felt, how her deliciously long legs strutted, and how her bouncy, plump, b- WAIT. I need to focus on how all those Plastics felt when they were being axed to death. I-I need to – I’m sorry I need a minute to collect myself.
Damn, being in love with a serial killer is tough. I fervently most categorically do not recommend it. You can get all swooped up in their blue eyes and mischievous smile, but just remember that the fingers touching your face are the same ones that…oh god, I can’t even finish this sentence. Itt just gives me so much pain. She told us we could be anything. I just didn’t know she meant “serial killers” too.
Sigh, I often think about trying black coffee just so I can be close to her again without actually being with her – wait…oh no, did I say that out loud?! I swear I don’t drink black coffee at all! I’m totally normal, I promise! LET GO OF ME, I haven’t killed anyone!!!! SHE’S the psycho plastic killer, not me!!