or a Southern drawl, and she can speak with her mouth brimming full of cigarette smoke.
You know she killed her parents because they physically abused her; but if they’re alive, she’s disowned them because they’re billionaires. She has no one to answer to. She does not have her G.E.D. or a beautician’s license. There’s no canopy bed crowded with stuffed animals where she’s going. Audrey’s not trying to lose weight, or quit smoking, or pull her life together and make it count for something in the world. “I’m perfect. Always have been. If you can’t see that, then you’ve got the problem,” she’d tell you if you asked.
She doesn’t own a car. If she did, she wouldn’t have any insurance. She doesn’t have a career, she just has a job. If you asked her what she was, she wouldn’t tell you what she did for a living. She defines herself as undefinable, and she’s not working or studying to become someone else. she’s not going to be an actress, nor is she impressed by the fact that you’re a financial counselor. If you tried to tell her about your congenital dry skin problem, she’d show you the infection she has from trying to wipe off a botched tattoo with hot laundry bleach.