Courtney Love in a ripped babydoll, smeared eyeliner, and knee high socks, snarling at the camera, in 1992. Sticky, glazed donuts, with rainbow sprinkles. A packet of Marlboro Lights, the butts smeared in red lipstick kisses. Bunking to swig on shoplifted vodka and pull the finger at business men in passing cars. Vomited pools of glitter in the kitchen sink. Polyester knits stretched tight against erect braless nipples. A folder covered in holographic Lisa Frank unicorn and rainbow stickers. Fucking at the drive-in. Riot Grrl mixtapes, battered and loved to shreds. Duck-egg-blue Fender Stratocasters. Strawberry Chupa-Chup on a moist, glistening, tongue. Rizzo and Frenchie. Roy Lichtenstein’s crying comic-book girls. Nicole Kidman taking a long hard drag on a cigarette at the exact moment she decides she’s done with Tom’s fucking bullshit. White, leather, laced up rollerskates. Candy floss hair. Bubblegum burst across high cheekbones. Hickeys. Neon signs advertising ice cream. Pink adidas all stars. Cherry Cola with striped straws. Marie Antoinette (the Dunst version). The Virgin Suicides (the Dunst version). A scraped and bloody knee. Heart-shaped spa baths. A short skirt hitched up by an eager hand. A stack of freshly xeroxed zines. Bowl of Lucky Charms. Feminism and swear words scrawled on toilet walls in pre-sniffed sharpies. Ouija boards. Denim jackets with FUCK OFF CREEP stencilled on the back. Plastic letter necklaces that spell SAD GIRLS CLUB. Drew Barrymore’s daisy chain. Inflatable pool toys. Candy coloured faux fur. And every goddam word of Rebel Girl.

For all you things…I made you an Instagram.

The Pink Velvet Box




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