Images from the “Serial Killer Scrapbook” I made for that crazy comedy character I used to perform as while in Los Angeles.
She was a friend of a friend. The tall one that came with the buff Lebanese version of He-Man and the creepy guy who couldn’t speak English, the one who looked like he might be on the scout for a couple of fresh sex slaves. She didn’t talk to anyone. She and that fuchsia pink excuse for a dress just stumbled right in and collapsed into my fathers couch. I thought she must have been pretty wasted. I also thought I shouldn’t have to be the one to approach her. The speakers were blasting and the spliffs were blazing when I noticed she still hadn’t moved. With her head slumped forward the mass of platinum blonde hair that covered her face made it hard for me to tell if her eyes were open or closed.