A day in the life of Lulu. A Pseudo Diva.


Being a sharp 22 year old is not an easy or fashionable thing. The moment I established that the blonde at heart had more fun; I did away with my standards. Standards won’t get me wasted or invites to parties at which I can achieve such enjoyable levels of intoxication. They’ll just make me well rounded and independent; things that only square people aspire to be.

My name was Scholastica once but you can call me nothing but l!u!l!u  now. This how a day in my wanna-barbie life goes.

9.30 am: I wake up and preen. This is necessary to set my personality in stone for the day (because duh, I’m smart. It doesn’t come naturally). I have a mirror right in front of my bed so I know I look extremely attractive while at it.

9.45am: I walk up to the mirror and say, ‘I am so wonderful, nobody will be able to resist me’ and arrange my features to say that for the rest of the day.

10.00am: I text Cissy-vice president of sugar*chx, my clique. She gets to decide whether or not I get to walk with the girls today, so I have to give it all I’ve got. Here goes: ‘!!!! You !gal. Hey!!!! Whats da plot??!??’

10.04am: I feel dirty. I desperately need to read something but if I do, the girls will smell words on me and I’ll have to walk at the end of the line, far away from the leader who is Julryn Nakaryma, that fabulous popstar who Plan B doesn’t get tired of writing about.

10.20am: ‘cul. Uv pasd test tday. Mt us at gden cte. Wear blu.’Cissy’s reply. I am horrified because the only blue outfit I have is hideous. The leader deemed it so because of its lack of sequins.

10.40am: Shower time.

11.00am: Make up time.

12.00pm: Still making up, man. You have no idea how attractive this Julryn chic is. The competition is vicious.

12.20pm: I take a cab to garden city- to feel rich.

12.40pm: After spotting the girls, I mentally practice the group signature walk- a sort of bouncy shuffle. Julryn looks up at me, which is a good sign. This is my cue to squeal and say OMG OMG OMG! LOL!

12.50pm: Still walking to them. Hot chicks do everything in slow motion. Act like you know. Lol!

12.51pm: Cissy eyeballs me and says, ‘tayke off tht scaaf u grrarl its myn’. What are you waiting for?Punctuation and proper spelling?

12.52pm: She lets the scarf drop when I hand it to her. Chick just doesn’t want me wearing it, which is just as well because its sequins put me in mind of her pimples which are visibly throbbing under that thick mat of foundation on her face.

1.20pm: I call one of the photographers of the red-rag, that tabloid that turns people like us into celebrities and tell him where we’re at because no day is complete without us being photographed ‘against our will’.

1.28pm: Everybody is touching up their make up and a silence descends in which I can hear the cogs in the girls’ minds turning. This is very disturbing so I decide to trigger the animated conversation that chic cliques are so famous for. Here goes. ‘Sugar*chx, For Colored Girls, that amazing movie by Tyler Perry is out. We gotta watch it.’ I then forget myself and tell them that it’s an adaptation of the book by Ntozake Shange and then all hell breaks lose.

1.30pm: They all as one, like a Greek chorus turn to me and say, ‘What?!?”

1.31pm: So I repeat myself because ‘For colored Girls who have Considered Suicide When the Rainbow is Enuf’ is a wonderful book and not even imminent dismissal from this clique can stop me gushing praise for it.

1.37pm: Julryn types something on her phone and shoves it in my face. It reads: I can’t believe that people actually read for fun. *eyes rolling*.

1.40pm: Now I have to walk five steps behind everyone. My humiliation is complete. The fact that I’m feeling humiliated because a couple of nitwits won’t walk with me is humiliating me even more.

1.50pm: Since a day hanging out with Sugar-chx almost always ends with me in isolation, I’ve taken to keeping an ipod at the bottom of my cavernous bag. We like sportz- Lonely Island is playing. Come to think of it. I’m the feminine version of that line: ‘We drink whisky and smoke cigars. Don’t believe us? Smell our cars.’ I am as brainlessly-girly as those men are macho.

3.00pm: Is it a flying saucer? Is it the anti-christ? No. Its Cissy’s blinged up hand waving me over. The pepper-rrazi is here. I toss my weave, straighten my ultra-micro dress and saunter over. Everybody is riveted by my marvelous walk. Flashing cameras. Lights. Hair blowing fans. This is the life.

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