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“After they give you the tits, your nipples are cockeyed and way too high,” she says. “they use a razor to shave the nipples off, and they relocate them.” That’s her word. Relocate. The Brandy Alexander Nipple Relocation Program. My dead brother, the late Shane, shakes the last bowel evacuant off her damp palm. Brandy says, “I have no sensation in my nipples.”
Laughter is the only sound left I can make that people will understand.
If I can’t be beautiful, I want to be invisible.
“Our real discoveries come from chaos,” Brandy yells, “from going to the place that looks wrong and stupid and foolish.”
“I’m not straight, and I’m not gay,” she says. “I’m not bisexual. I want out of the labels. I don’t want my whole life crammed into a single word. A story. I want to find something else, unknowable, some place to be that’s not on the map. A real adventure.”
We’d go anywhere to look good by comparison, and what I realize is mostly what I hate about Evie is the fact that she’s so vain and stupid and needy. But what I hate most is how she’s just like me. What I really hate is me so I hate pretty much everybody.
