⠀“M͟J͟”: ‘YA LIKE? DON’T SELL THOSE BAD BOYS FOR LESS THAN A MILLION, NO, A TRILLION! THAT’S GONNA COST A PRETTIER PENNY WHEN I’M FAMOUS OUTTA MY MIND IN THE WHITE WAY.
SCHOOLBOYS, SCHOOLGIRLS, THEY ALL LIKE MJ! yearbook’s riddled with pictures of her, popped in between collages and sticking out with poor hair—dye job nonetheless coming off as endearing paired with smile that teethy, that white. she’s got one candid print hung somewhere around with expired glue and cornerstone star stickers riddled across scissor-job frames. picture this: PETER PARKER’S ALWAYS HAD THAT ONE ZIT ON THE MIDDLE OF HIS FOREHEAD. it showed even with flash of aged x—something canon lens. her arm’s flung around him in hurried, probable hormonally-induced delirium, mouth caught half agape in the middle of escaping song lyrics— though the grin at the very ends of her gloss-coated lips is made apparent in the crowd of people she’d surfed through. he looks lost, but he’s looking at her. like some sort of north star. smiling with this unplaceable, delectable mixture of helplessness and clarity.
〝 NAH, ‘S NO PROBLEM—O. lucky for you, ‘m feeling extra generous today. SAY AAAA-AH! 〟 discarded set of fries, showered with ketchup, mustard and a fair share of barbecue sauce is penetrated into with polished hands nevermind’ing the ten dollar manicure she’d ripped off with moderate tagalog. she’s holds the bunch, riddled together with fast-food oil the city must’ve been dead set on creating a couple of casualties out of local high schools with, towards his visage. the whisper of a make-believe plane is voiced out, though she snorts it off just as quickly. only to promptly feed the bite to poor petey’s unassuming mouth.