Look in the mirror and describe self in third person. 100 words.
Dressed in yesterday’s clothes, it is after eight in the evening when she drags herself towards a mirror: the first thing she does after letting her leather jacket fall off of her arms to the floor. Yesterday’s lenses feel dry but at least there are no rings under her heavy eyes betraying the fact that it was six in the morning before she crawled into a single bed with a drunken Mikester, Mark and Craig. She is the only one who escaped a hangover and the only one who showered after rousing from a chaste, sweaty tangle of bodies. She still smells of Lynx, boy and a little Jack Daniels.
The girl wearily holds herself upright and glances blearily back. Yesterday’s clothes are oversized but her body’s clean and her make-up freshly applied; or at least it was, when she reluctantly pulled herself out of the crowded single bed at two after a breakfast of blessed water, a strip of someone’s leftover pakora, and half a cola cube. Her legs are scraped and two nasty bruises are developing on her skull, which she examines apathetically. She wears armwarmers now that she’s left the inviolability of her friends’ company. She’s scarred, her body aches, she’s tired; but she manages a sweet smile.
The girl of normally correct posture slumps wearily and blinks as she contemplates her weak pose. Her overused daily lenses are so dry they threaten to jump from her eyes every time her eyelids rub against them. She straightens her armwarmers and stumbles forwards to examine her new bruises in the mirror. Her scalp is devoid of blood but concussion may be an inevitability of her clumsiness. The way she plucks at her attire indicates her desire to pull off yesterday’s clothes, but she is not amongst her friends so it is unacceptable to strip to her underwear, and with their absence comes the inability to flop down and snuggle.
Her teeshirt is literally twice her size and worn over a casual skirt that can’t be worn without leggings underneath to detract from its thinness. Well it has been, but the days of allowing people to autograph her bare thighs are behind her. She misses school. After a moment of rubbing tired eyes she leans forwards to poke and prod at her face. She’s stopped using anti-aging products and it shows on her teenage skin. She can pass for her own age now. It is clear from her expression what she thinks of that.
Peeling off her thigh-high boots with minimal effort directed to unlacing the ribbons up the back, the girl drops her feet to the floor and heaves a sigh that shakes her entire, wearied body. She runs her hands up her legs, wishing to massage them but finding her hands too stiff to do so. She aches. She rubs her eyes clumsily, visibly relieved when her dry contacts remain reluctantly but loyally on her eyeballs. Her muscles are so tight and all she wants is to feel someone push up her oversized tee and massage her into a less zombie-like state.
Her awkward blinking indicates that she’s slept in her daily disposable lenses and the way she rubs the skin under her eyes states her surprise at a lack of coloured rings there. Her expression is taken aback but relieved when she notes the whites of her eyes have remained so. When breathing into her hand she struggles to smell the bourbon whiskey that should have left her with an unpleasant hangover and bloodshot eyes. She plucks uncomfortably at yesterday’s clothes and drops her face into her arms, looking relieved that at least her body is clean. She wants sleep, water and a massage.