Board Thread:Fun and Games/@comment-27492740-20160917035442/@comment-27172956-20170115032206

NEON EXPOSURE

Last October I was lying on a golf course in Los Angeles. City of angels. The air smelled of smog and grease, Trump smelled of Cartier and gold. Perfect contrasts. The searing heat sliced through my cheeks, but I was happy.

Earlier that morning, I met him on the streets as he shouted at a Syrian woman. The anger, the timbre. The sheer loudness that encased me, surrounded me like water. When she didn't respond, he spat at her and stomped away. His face was so bright, so neon, it brought tears to my eyes. Joyful tears. I hissed at the woman. Trump spotted me, picked me up. His smile was worth millions.

Back to that night on the golf course. I curled my body around Trump's ankle. A beautifully soggy cheeto, all-American can of cheese whiz. His stomach fell over his belt and his breaths were rhythmic, almost oceanic in their nature. In the distance, music could be heard, nothing but sound and sweat and sting. Trump gazed at me with his rainy, misogynistic eyes. His spray tan rippled across his body.

"Orange is the warmest colour," he whispered into my ear.

"Orange is the warmest colour," I repeated, dazzled. "Orange, Orange, Orange."