(Sits, in boy-mode, in front of her own mirrored reflection, about to paint her face)

Every time I paint it’s like finding her all over again. Bashful goddess. Ever mysterious, she needs to be called. Enticed into being. Who is she? What’s she hungry for tonight? The gaze of a glassy eyed Vermeer or a brazen Picasso staring back. What fragility is revealed through her delicate eyeline or the over-drawn brow? If I wait for long enough… never looking away… slowly, slowly, the vision starts to appear. YES! There she is. The mirror image forms…

Ahhh! Who am I fucking kidding. It just goes! Every time. Six months out of drag and there’s nothing there. I can’t see her. What is with that? All powers of transformation gone: no prowess or spark, just sad eyes and tired lines. And I couldn’t read any bitch for filth.

But then… Mother’s called it in. Tonight. He said it’s important.


Bitch you better just paint yourself alive. Step your prissy ass down from your ivory tower and work this fairy queen magic til your face and body scream FABULOSITY whether you feel like Cinderfuckingrella or some Cleveland Troll. It’s TIME. I’m calling her. Doorwhore. Christened by the divinity of eternal access. Blessed by the intricate knowledge of je ne sais quoi. The first born of all of Mother’s children - the sweet child of the door.

(Starts to paint her face) Lets hope when she’s reborn tonight you bitches are ready cos she’s taking no prisoners…