Wait, what.

“You deserve a job that treats you right, Nicole” her Mama would always tell her as they pulled the day’s washing from the line.

“Coco, MOM! Coco! I’ll never be a famous butt lady with a name like Nicole!” Her little face tensed with frustration.

Mama shook her head. “Child, those dreams of yours…” She knelt down to Coco’s level. “Famous butt ladies just don’t exist. No matter how hard you want them to. It’s impossible.”

But Coco heard the word “impossible” her whole life. Her dream of growing peanuts in walnut shells. Her idea to mate a bird with a mime. Her longing for water-proof fire and fire-proof water. Even at age 10 she knew better than to listen to adults, for their minds are filled with hardness. No room to bend. No room to explore.

21 years later, she knew her mother was just worried for her. But she had made it. She was finally a famous butt lady.

“Mama would be proud,” she whispered to herself as the photographer yelled at her to suck her finger seductively for all of the men who would eventually ejaculate all over her image. “Mama would be so proud.”

Years had passed since she had last seen him; he without a name, he without a face.

She remembered the night well. It was the eve of her Fourth Annual Party Gala Event and that night was meant to be especially exciting. That night she would announce to her friends and family that she was accepted to Harvard for grad school on a full scholarship.

She knew she deserved it; she had worked hard, pulling night shifts at the local diner and spending her 15 minute breaks writing her thesis bit by bit. She knew it was controversial to use Immanual Kant’s viewpoints to explain The String Theory. No one, after all, had ever done such a thing. Some would claim it was impossible, that the two had nothing in common, that Kant had died 200 years before The String Theory was introduced, that an 18th century German philosopher had absolutely nothing he could say on the theory.  Coco was confident she had the facts to back it up, and the fact of the matter is, she did.

But on that eve she had a dream. A masked man came into her room and swept her away, showing her still framed moments of her life as it was going to be. A life of intellectual stimulation, tea with Stephen Hawking, a cozy house with two Jack Russell Terriers and a husband who treated her right.

The masked man turned to her and said, “this is what you could have, but it is not what you are meant to have. Someday you will meet a man who refers to himself as a sweetened beverage. He will pay to have fake body parts put into your real body parts. Someday this man will make you his wife, and you and his slight lisp will live richly ever after.”

PRESENT DAY:

Across Coco’s face a secret smile danced. As she felt the feather duster tickling her asshole in front of dozens of paparazzi, she knew she had made the right decision. She knew she was finally home.

What perserverance it takes to be this beautiful while remaining intelligent, modest and good, she thought as she slipped the cat-earred head band over her blonde mane.

She knew she must never forget her humble roots; the mornings spent mucking the stalls, the afternoons sitting at the dock where the minnows nipped at her toes and once Timmy from across the way tried to kiss her on cheek. She’ll always remember the day her grandmother told her, “Nicole, remember that you are an Austin woman. You must stand up for and by your name. Never forget, Nicole. Never forget.”

“I remember, Grandma,” she whispered to herself as she bent at the waist for her husband to fake fuck her doggy-style for the photographer’s at the red carpet event. “I remember.”

She spent most of her days debating the futility of a finite life, and today was like any other.

“T?”
“Yes, m’lady?”
“If we truly cease existence in all forms when our physical self dies, then what is the point of being at all?”
“Well, Coco —”
“And T?”
“Yes, darling?” He sighed defeatedly.
“What is a truly moral life?”
“Nicole,  I feel as if —”
“And T? If there is no predetermined path for our exis—”
“BITCH, SHUT THE FUCK UP AND ENJOY THOSE TITTIES I BOUGHT YOU. THAT’S THE PREDETERMINED PATH OF OUR EXISTENCE.”

Coco cocked her head like a baby Springer Spaniel and Ice-T gazed longingly at all of the whores he could’ve chosen. Whores who didn’t question the existential life. Whores without brains as big as their titties.