If you enjoy FREJARIZONA, order my novel "Famous For Nothing" HERE
or my novel about the NYC fashion industry "Empire Waste" HERE


by T/James Reagan

    “Remember when you didn’t do runway, then Nick Fury came and made you do runway so you didn’t have to watch that shitty AGENTS OF SHIELD show on NBC?” Arizona asked Freja as they sat in their palatial hotel room in Milan.

   ”Ugh how could I forget,” Freja mumbled, “I mean, I really wish someone had informed me that The Avengers was not a documentary so I knew that it was just Sam Jackson cosplaying and he had no real authority beyond the authority he intrinsically wields because he’s Sam Jackson.”

   ”I know, right? If the Avengers wasn’t a documentery, why does New York City look so shitty like aliens had recently invaded there?” Arizona asked, suspecting a cover up of Loki’s invasion.

    “New York City looks like shit because of Global Warming, probably,” Freja said.

   ”I’ve heard bad things about Global Warming.”

    Freja nodded her head, then said, “Global Warming’s fashion equivalent is Jeremy Scott for Moschino. It keeps getting worse, and people keep paying more attention to it, but no one does anything to stop it.” 

   Arizona gasped, “Does that mean Miley is in favor of global warming?”

   Freja ate a strawberry off a room service tray and thought about it for a moment, then decided, “No. I think Miley is just appropriating global warming for the edge.”

   ”Very Katy Perry,” Arizona said with hints of approval, then she returned to the topic, ”So as I was remembering, Nick Fury brought you back to the runway. Don’t you think it’s time we Fury’d someone else?”

    “You mean like bringing Daphne back?”

     ”No, Daphne came back because her 2 season ban put in place by Jaden Smith was overturned,” Arizona reminded Freja.

     ”Right. Makes sense,” Freja said.

     ”Okay, so I really wanna Nick Fury Avenger-style recruit someone, but I don’t know who,” Arizona said, asking for help with her plan.

     ”Well who do you miss the most, who isn’t one of your exes, because if you bring back one of your exes, I will fight them,” Freja said, growing more intense.

     ”Who do I miss the most?” Arizona said, almost to herself.

      Freja waited patiently as Arizona mused over the possibilities. 

      Then, when it was finally clear who should be Fury’d, Freja and Arizona said, simultaneously, “Gemma Ward!!!!!!!!!!!”

      They repeated, “Gemma Ward!”

      They said, “Gemma Ward!” for a third time.

     ”Fuck. I knew that wouldn’t work,” Arizona said.

     ”Yeah. Gemma Ward hates The Candyman and if you make a joke about Gemma eating candy, I swear I will Nick Fury the other Jenner sister onto that Prada runway so fast.”

     ”Chill, I would never,” Arizona affirmed. “So if the Beetlejuice style say the names three times and I’ll appear stuff doesn’t work, how else can we get flawless bby Gemma to walk Prada?”

      “Well, there is the witchcraft way,” Freja suggests. She always is suggesting this for solution for everything.

      “I don’t know much witchcraft, I’m not from Denmark so they don’t teach it in our public schools,” Arizona said, feeling inferior.

     ”Okay. I will teach you,” Freja said.

      Both Freja and Arizona got on the floor and Freja said, “Repeat after me- Light as a Gemma, cute as a Ward. Light as a Gemma cute as a Ward.”

     Freja and Arizona repeated that shit a few times, then waited, but nothing happened because witchcraft only works if you’re wearing the right shade of lipstick and Freja was wearing a Rouge Hydrabase Chanel red, which performed very poorly in witchcraft tests, while Arizona was wearing Estee Lauder Pure Color Envy Sculpting lipstick which is only marginally good for witchcraft. 

    “If we can’t conjure Gemma Ward, we will just have to go get her.” Freja decided.

    “Right, okay, yeah, let’s just go to Australia. Awesome plan,” Arizona said sarcastically. 

    “Oh, you’re right. That sounds creepy. They nightblog in the daytime. It’s summer in the winter there. If we go to Australia, it’s so backwards I bet Gemma Ward doesn’t even rule the country.”

      “Stop, now you’re just picking on Australia,” Arizona said, “I’m sure that Gemma Ward has been named the Queen of Australia. What the fuck else could she be doing back there? The biggest question is how do we steal Gemma Ward if we are too smart to willingly go to Australia?”

    “We time travel back to a pre-Avengers NYC and we get Gemma while she was walking a show, then we return her to the future.”

    “Freja!” Arizona gasped, “That idea is so fucking good that I forgive the things I said about the super shitty Denmark public schooling system!”

    “Do you know how do you time travel?” Freja asked, a little embarrassed at her Denmarkian public school education.

    “Um, well, there are two ways, if you don’t count Loopering" Arizona said, and Freja’s eyes lit up because Arizona is super smart at all things, except some things. "First, you could use a phone booth, you know, like Bill & Ted or those British virgins on tumblr." 

     ”No!” Freja said, “When Loki destroyed New York City, he must have destroyed all of the phone booths too. There are literally zero phone booths there.”

    “Well, there is another way,” Arizona teased, “Michael J. Fox went back in time in a DeLorean.”

    “Uh, I’m not so sure about the health side effects, ya know,” Freja said.

    “I understand. Listen, let’s buy a DeLorean, and send, like, Karl’s cat Choupette back in time, and then we will just teach Choupette to return to the future and if she’s all fucked up we’ll call off the time travel idea,” Arizona suggested.

    “Um, Choupette doesn’t drive. She has a driver. She’s rich,” Freja pointed out.

     ”Okay, yeah lets just send Choupettes driver,” Arizona decided.

     Later that afternoon Freja and Arizona used some of their multi-million dollar joint bank account to buy a DeLorean. 

    After they drove it to the Prada show, Freja did some posing in front of the DeLorean for really cute pics and maybe some snapchats and maybe an LV campaign, and things sort of got out of hand and before Arizona knew it, it was time for the Prada show and she still hadn’t gone back in time!

     In a panic, Freja and Arizona rushed into the DeLorean, then turned on all the shit inside it to make it do time travel or whatever, and when they were about to drive it, someone stepped in their way.

     It was Gemma Ward.

     She had arrived from the past, looking perfect, ready to walk Prada.

     Freja and Arizona both rushed out of the DeLorean and ran to Gemma’s side.

    “But… how…?” Arizona gasped, taking in Gemma’s beauty.

    “You didn’t need to go to the past to find me,” Gemma’s beautiful voice said, “And I want you all to have a happy future, so here I am.”

    Freja and Arizona both wiped away tears as they had finally received what they had demanded during the 8 cold years of Gemmaless runways.

    Gemma opened Prada and we all lived happily ever after and none of us had weird medical side effects from time traveling or visiting Australia. 

***Authors note: All of this shit was satire. Except Gemma Ward’s return. I know you’re like, “Tom we would never be blessed enough to have Gemma open Prada,” but, yes, Gemma opened Prada. That is a very real reality that I am celebrating with this post. The other parts are satire and shouldn’t be taken seriously, but seriously, take the fact that Gemma is back seriously, because it is serious.***

If you liked this post, please please consider buying one of my books. They are only $3.99 or FREE with Amazon Prime. “Famous For Nothing" is like FrejArizona with socialites, and "Empire Waste" is a novel about the NYC fashion industry. You can get them both-> here

FrejArizona: You Win Some, You Luss Some

    Backstage at the shoot for Interview, Freja sat quietly and listened on her iPod touch to a recording Abbeybaby made of her “piano skills.” Freja was so proud of Abbey. Abbey was like Alicia Keys, if Alicia Keys was Australian and routinely didn’t show up to modeling gigs she booked.

     Freja could hear Craig McDean yelling at his assistant about missing garments and no matter how loud Freja turned up Abbey’s piano playing, the argument was still audible.

     Arizona appeared from behind a curtain and said, “Craig is really pissed, apparently someone stole a skirt.”

     ”Very Winona,” Freja said with reverence.

     ”I know,” Arizona said, “This is like the time Raf took over Dior or that day we were on set at that shoot Sasha Luss was doing and we stole her skirt because it’s hard to find pictures of Sasha Luss bottomless.”

     ”That was so disappointing. I forgot that Sasha Luss was already wearing a skirt when I stole that stuff. It was such an oversight on my part,” Freja said, overwhelmed by guilt because she disappointed Arizona.

     ”I forgive you. Someday Sasha Luss will have no pants on and when that day comes I’ll be standing proudly by your side.” Arizona said, then reached over and held Freja’s hand (the hand that wasn’t holding the iPod touch).

      The argument behind the curtain was getting louder and suddenly Criag’s assistant appeared in front of Freja and Arizona.

     ”There it is!” the assistant called out.

     ”Please don’t call Arizona ‘it,’” Freja requested.

     ”The skirt!” the assistant said, then pointed.

     Freja and Arizona both looked to where the girl was pointing and there was nothing there besides Freja’s hat.

     ”I think Craig McDean’s assistant is on LSD,” Freja said, then moved slightly in front of Arizona to protect her from this drug crazed maniac.

     ”Freja, why did you take the skirt?” the assistant asked.

     ”Did you work the Sasha Luss shoot?” Freja asked, studying the drug addict assistant.

    “I have before,” the assistant said, confused. 

    “Was she bottomless at anytime?” Arizona asked.

    “What? No. She wasn’t,” the assistant advised.

    “Fucking bummer city, population us,” Freja said, then pouted.

    “Freja, give me the skirt,” the assistant demanded.

    Freja scrunched up her face, then decided to comply since everyone in the room were equals, they all hadn’t seen Sasha Luss bottomless.

    “Freja, why are you taking off your pants?” the assistant asked, as Freja started undoing her belt.

    “Because, uh, you said you needed my skirt,” Freja said, getting tired of the LSD girl.

    “Yes, I need the skirt, not your pants. You are wearing pants.”

    Freja looked down, “I just thought… these were… one of those new skirts… with the seams in the middle, between the legs.”

    “You just described pants,” the assistant said.

    “She doesn’t know where the skirt is, back off,” Arizona hissed.

    “She’s wearing the skirt as a hat,” the assistant said.

    Freja froze, then ran her fingers across the black feathers of the hat.”You’re wrong, this is headgear. No one’s waist is this tiny,” Freja said.

    “The skirt is for Olga Sherer,” the assistant said.

    “Oh, that actually does make sense,” Arizona responded sensibly.

    “I’m not letting you take my hat and use it for Olga Sherer’s skirt,” Freja said, standing up for her fashion rights.

    The assistant, hearing Craig freaking out behind the curtain, had no choice but to take things to the extreme. She took out her phone and said, “Oh, what’s that? It looks like the Interview Magazine editorial schedule for 2014. And if we go to July 2014, what’s this? I’m typing in “Pantsless Sasha Luss Editorial” how did that get there? Well, as long as we stay on schedule with our editorials this year, looks like it will-” and then the assistant stopped talking because Freja threw the hat/skirt at her.

    “Thank you Freja,” the assistant said.

    “I wish you luck with your LSD demons,” Arizona said to the assistant.

    “I’ll see you in July at the shoot,” Freja said, hatless, but excited for the future. 

****AUTHORS NOTE**** None of this shit actually happened, except for the part about Sasha Luss always wearing pants. That has happened, many times, each day of the year.

If you enjoyed this FrejArizona, please consider buying my novel “Famous For Nothing” by T/James Reagan for $4 here. Thank you.

Agents of F.R.E.J.A.R.I.Z.O.N.A

    Freja and Arizona had run out of strawberries so they left the bedroom and walked into the kitchen. 

    Sitting at the kitchen table, wearing a very Rick Owens black outfit, was a man wearing an eyepatch.

    In a wavering voice, Arizona asked, “Who are you?”

    The man turned to the beautiful models, and Freja eeked out a joyous welcome, “It’s Laurence Fishburne! I loved your superbowl commercial!”

     ”I’m the other black guy,” Laurence Fishburne said.

      “Urkel?” Arizona responded.

      “No. Nick Fury,” the man said.

       ”Oh. Right. You’re in the Avengers,” Arizona said, less excited about this guy who wasn’t Urkel or Morpheus. 

       ”Actually, I’m in S.H.I.E.L.D,” Nick fury said.

       ”That show sucks dick,” Freja said.

       ”Well, I’m not on the show,” Nick responded.

       ”Aw, I know how it feels to be replaced. I used to be the face of Chanel then it got as shitty as your TV show,” Freja said.

       Nick Fury stood up and declared, “That’s why I’m here.”

       ”Are you Karl’s new boytoy? You’re a little old, but the eyepatch is very Karl,” Arizona said.

       ”I want you to walk Louis Vuitton,” Nick Fury said, staring directly at Arizona out of his non-patched eye.

       ”Aw, Arizona that’s amazing!” Freja celebrated.

       ”Wait, this one is Arizona?” Nick asked, pointing at the world’s Muse.

       Arizona nodded to confirm her identity.

       Nick Fury then turned his back to Arizona and said to Freja, “I want you to walk Louis Vuitton.”

       ”You want both me and ‘zona to walk LV? This is sounding very Céline.”

       ”Just you,” Nick Fury clarified to Freja.

       ”Did you just Chanel-drop my desert princess?” Freja asked.

       Arizona finally understood how Freja felt when she thought she was replaced with a coffee maker. She looked at Nick Fury, then said, “I don’t think we’re seeing eye to eyepatch here.”

      “Very funny,” Nick Fury said, but he was not laughing which means he was being sassy and did not find this observation funny. 

     Freja, to keep things civil, asked Nick, “How come the Hulk was super uncontrollable when he was on that S.H.I.E.L.D. plane chasing after Scarjo- not that I blame him, I would hulk out too if I had the chance to bobble those boobs- but anyway, once you got the Hulk out in the middle of New York City, you could totally control his actions and he didn’t go after Scarjo at all. I mean, that’s shitty characterization, even by Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D standards.”

     ”I’ll be happy to answer all your questions when you agree to walk Vuitton,” Nick Fury said. It was obvious he had no explanation for this lazy writing. 

     ”I’m retired,” Freja said.

     ”We need you. We can’t just replace you every year with someone new like you’re the guy playing Bruce Banner,” Nick Fury said.

      “I’m sorry but we stopped trusting bald people when Bruce Willis went back in time to keep lesbians from having children. Maybe you bald people should have been a little more accepting of two women raising Josefien Rodermans Muse Beha Erichsen.”

      “I honestly have no clue what you are saying to me,” Nick Fury admitted. 

      “What’s the eyepatch from?” Freja asked.

      Nick Fury let our a deep sigh, but he was desperate to earn Freja’s trust so he admitted, “I needed to get Naomi to walk Vuitton that year with the carousel. I was admittedly being a little pushy and well…”

      “She threw her cell phone at your eye, didn’t she,” Arizona said.

      “Yes. Naomi threw her cell phone at my eye. It was one of those Marc Jacobs cases with the ears on the top of the case and it totally destroyed my vision,” Nick admitted, and he was probably crying behind his eyepatch thinking about this.

      “It seems like an honest mistake. Naomi was probably just trying to get that awful Marc Jacobs phone case out of her hand as fast as possible and you got in the way,” Freja said.

     ”There are no honest mistakes when it comes to Naomi Campbell,” Nick Fury said gravely. 

     ”I forgive her,” Arizona decided.

     ”You can’t forgive someone for removing my eyesight!” Nick yelled.

     ”Seems like she just did,” Freja observed.

     ”Okay. Fine. I will forgive Naomi if you walk Louis Vuitton,” Nick said reluctantly. 

    “How about I walk Chanel? We’re low on groceries,” Freja said.

    “No. It’s Louis Vuitton or nothing,” Nick declared.

    “We could walk literally any show we want to,” Arizona accurately pointed out.

    “Valid observation,” Nick Fury said meekly.

     Seeing Nick defeated, as though he had just seen the latest episode of S.H.I.E.L.D. and realized it was a shitpile, Arizona tried to cheer him up by taking his side, “Freja, maybe he’s right. Maybe people need to go back to what made them great? I mean, look at Robert Downey Jr. He was doing all sorts of self destructive things like freebasing, and driving drunk, and sleeping with Sarah Jessica Parker, but then Laurence Fishburne came and turned Robert’s life around. Now RDJ is back doing what he loves the most… well… what he loves the second-most after free basing.”

     ”Are you saying you’re going to RDJ me?” Freja asked.

     ”No,” Arizona said, “We’re going to put the Denmarkian queen back on her throne.”

    “‘Zona don’t say ‘throne’ around Nick. It sounds like you’re saying “thrown” and poor Mr. Fury is one projectile Marc Jacobs case away from being as blind as Daredevil.”

**Writers note*** ALL OF THIS WAS MADE UP (except for the part about Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. sucking). If you liked this piece, please consider buying my full length novel- T/James Reagan’s “Famous For Nothing” here for $4. 

FrejArizona: Bruce Willis Took Our Baby Away


    “Freja, what the fuck?” Arizona called out in the middle of the party.

    Looking up from her ipod touch, Freja said, ”I’m only googling ‘Pics of Sasha Luss’ vagina’ because I am… working on… my medical studies. This is, you know, for… my nursing degree,” Freja said.

    “No,” Arizona responded, “I didn’t mean that, I  googled the same thing morning too, there are no pictures of Sasha Luss’ vagina. We’ll have to research further so I appreciate you taking the time to google on your ipod touch. The reason I was ‘what the fuck’ing is because I think I found our daughter.”

    “Our…daughter. Wait. What?” Freja mumbled, frustrated that there weren’t more pictures of Sasha Luss on the internet. Freja tried to also process what Arizona was saying.

    Arizona stuck a perfectly manicured finger out and pointed across the party to a girl who looked a shitload like the glorious unification of Freja and Arizona. “‘Zona, what the fuck?” Freja gasped.

    “Do you think Wixson was right about time travel?” Arizona asked, worried that if Wixson was right about this, imagine the other Wixsonisms that would have to be reviewed for hidden truths.

    “Yes. Yes I do think Wixson is right about time travel. This proves it,” Freja said, as everything that she once understood about the world was now being brought into question.

    “Should we go tell her that we’re her parents and she has to come live with us in our opulent mansion?” Arizona asked.

     ”That does seem like the motherly thing to do,” Freja agreed.

     As Freja and Arizona made their way across the party to their daughter, ‘zona asked, “How did this happen?”

     ”Well,” Freja said, putting together the pieces, “by Wixson rules, we traveled into the past, fucked, had a kid with future  technology where men are no longer necessary, and then we forgot our kid in the past because probably Bruce Willis showed up like in that Joseph Gordon Levitt movie, ‘Looper.’”

   Arizona gasped, “You’re right. Fucking looper-ass Bruce Willis will not stop going back into the past to prevent lesbians from having babies with future technology. Why do we continually allow this to happen?”

   ”I’m sure tumblr is all over it. Leave the petition up to them. I think
we need to focus on our daughter.”

    “What do we say to her? ‘Hi we’re your moms, don’t judge us as moms, it’s Bruce Willis’ fault?” Arizona said nervously.

    “If only we could find out how we time traveled back to create her and then we could time travel back before that point and kill Bruce Willis before he went on his ‘traditional family values’ crusade,” Freja plotted.

    “Maybe our daughter can help,” Arizona said.

    “Yes, we need to recruit her.”

    Freja and Arizona joined hands, then walked to meet their daughter.

    “I wish we got invited to the premiere of that new X-Men movie. I bet it would tell us what to do in this situation,” Arizona said, desperate for answers and Halle Berry.

    The party parted and Arizona and Freja walked up to their daughter.

    Arizona put a hand over her mouth as her eyes got wet.

    “Hi, I am Freja, what is your name?” Freja made the introduction, not dropping the mom baggage just yet.

    “Josefien Rodermans,” the girl said.

    “Josefien Rodermans-Beha-Erichsen-Muse,” Arizona quietly gasped.

    “Where are you from?” Freja asked.

    “The Netherlands,” the girl said.

    “Why the fuck did we time travel to the Netherlands? The Netherlands is literally like in my top 5 places I wouldn’t time travel to,” Freja said to Arizona, annoyed with her past time-traveling self’s sucky travel itinerary, then she added, “Were you born in the Netherlands?”

    Josefien Rodermans-Beha-Erichsen-Muse nodded her head yes.

    “I have just one question,” Arizona said, fighting back her tears for a moment.

    “Yes?” Josefien Rodermans-Beha-Erichsen-Muse responded.

    “What do you think of Bruce Willis?” Arizona asked.

    “I don’t like him very much,” Josefien Rodermans-Beha-Erichsen-Muse said.

    “Neither do we, we will never let Bruce Willis destroy our family ever again,” Arizona declared, then the happy family triple hugged and they looked really fashionable doing it, not dorky like you and your friends look when you all triple hug.

***Authors note: ALL OF THIS SHIT WAS MADE UP (Except the part about time travel). All characters are not intended to represent anyone, living or dead, in the past or the future.***

If you liked this post, please consider buying my novel for $4 here.

FrejArizona: Gun Control


(Photo compliments of Vogue UK January 2014)

If you missed it, read Part 1, HERE

IF ENJOY THIS, PLEASE BUY MY NOVEL “Famous For Nothing” by T/James Reagan for only $3.99- HERE 


    Another makeup shoot.

    Behind the camera, instead of in front of it.

    Behind the photographer, instead of in front of him.

    Arizona booked the campaign. Freja was briefly considered, but once again, they said, “She’s a little too… androgynous for this campaign,” or maybe they went with, “She’s a little too… punk rock for this campaign. Freja is Iggy Pop and we’re looking for, well, ya know, something more in the neighborhood of the female Macklemore. 

   So they went with Arizona, and Freja went with Arizona to the shoot after a quiet demand, “You haveto be there.”

   The reasons why Freja wasn’t supposed to be on the set were so varying and loud that they echoed off every arched ceiling. The piercing assault surround Freja became suffocating. Freja looked over at Arizona and made a hand motion to indicate that she was going to smoke a cigarette out on the deck. Arizona nodded, then went back to listening to the photographer who was instructing her to apply the makeup like “a Native American preparing for battle, except without the genocidal implications.”

    Freja knew exactly where everything was on “set” because he had been there before, so many nights. A year into the new decade, Freja had decided she needed something more permanent. She decided this with Abbey. This house that the stupid fucking makeup people chose was the house that FrejAbbey also chose. Freja didn’t feel like her return was a coincidence, but instead a demand made by the universe to close gaps and dispel hypothetical situations that had been reappearing with a troubling frequency lately.

    Innumerable nights ended out on this deck, under the moon, under a blanket, with Abbey. As intense as the memories of these nights were for Freja, it was the last time that she was out on this porch with Abbey that she could not escape. That day was stuck in Freja’s mind like a song whose every lyric reminded Freja of the mistake she made.

    Time fixed nothing and distance was impossible with Abbey because both she and Freja lived such a nomadic existence the potential to cross paths was always there. Freja never felt safe from the moment she needed and feared.  

    The man they rented the house from kept the long glass table that Freja last saw Abbey at. It was still on the deck, and Freja sat down, ashing her cigarette on the clear glass. Freja had left so many things behind in this house, and the landlord had kept them, almost like the house was waiting for her return. How easy it would be to step back into this life. No one lives here. They were renting the house out to anyone who had the money. Freja had the money. 

    The world that Freja and Abbey created together was now being rented for photoshoots. How could two people who looked so good together decide one day that all of this no longer looks right?

    Freja looked at her reflection in her phone and felt she looked the same she did the last time she was on this deck. Even the girls that  Abbey deemed “the three little pigs” had changed, but Freja hadn’t. Crystal Renn, no longer a pig, was now skinny. Her cheekbones in the right light, reminded Freja of her own. Meanwhile, Tyra was Tyra and there were rumors of Gemma being pregnant so the weight could be blamed on “Kardasianing out” for the pregnancy. Yet it was Abbey who lost the most weight since the last time she was on this deck. Weight that Abbey did not have to spare. 

    Since leaving this house, everyone had figured it out, besides Freja and Abbey. New mansion. New model. Same regrets. Same model.

     Freja flicked her burnt out cigarette butt across the table and instantly triggered a B-horror movie moment. From seemingly nowhere, a white cat dashed onto the table and caught the butt between her paws. It was not the sudden jump that sent a jolt through Freja, it was the fact that this white cat was the same cat that Abbey alleged “followed her home” from Rome.

    Abbey’s white cat made the trek from Rome and America, but it didn’t follow Abbey when she moved out. The cat seemed to have agreed with everyone else. This was the perfect home.

     Freja reached over and touched Abbey’s pussy for the first time in years.


    “What’s the theme?” Abbey asked, pacing her filthy Brooklyn apartment, as Karmen Pedaru absently leafed through a foreign Vogue to see what her friends were up to.

     ”Punk. The theme. Is punk,” Karmen Pedaru said, a little annoyed because the bitch who played Jen from Dawnsons Creek got the Hedi S. dress so everyone else will have to settle for what some old rich dude thinks ‘punk’ is.

     Abbey stopped pacing. “Wait, punk or pink?”

    “Punk,” Karmen Pedaru said, then stared down Abbey because she wasn’t sure if Abbey was being bitchy about her accent.

The Met Gala theme… is PUNK.

    It was an over used and vague term in the industry.

     Even the music industry wasn’t sure who, or what, punk actually was. When something was called  ’punk’ someone in the YouTube comments was quick to point out, “YOU STUPID FUCK. THIS IS NOT PUNK THIS IS (Post-Hardcore, Pop-Punk, Screamo, No-Wave, Hardcore, etc…).

     Abbey had her band. Bands are punk.

     Abbey played the tambourine. Tambourines are not punk.

    There was the idea that Abbey was the “most punk tambourine player” but it oddly felt like being the pornstar with the kindest father. There was no sense of accomplishment to it. It felt like an accidental happenstance resulting from the remainder of the sample set being so seriously fucked that it was almost unfair.

     ”Who are you going with?” Abbey asked, hoping that they would have “punk” dates so the girls could just “Nancy it.”

      Karmen Pedaru sighed heavily then said, “Some director guy who made some movie about, I don’t know, something unfair that people passionately agreed was unfair, so I guess the actor in the movie is going to get Leo’s Oscar.”

    “That seems unfair to Leo,” Abbey said in a quiet voice.

     ”Maybe my date will make the movie about it,” Karmen Pedaru said, seemingly unexcited to see this possible movie.

      “I’m going to text my agent to see who I have to go with,” Abbey said, picking up her iphone off the coffee table, then texting, “Send me a pic of my date.” 

       A silent moment passed, then the phone vibrated. Abbey, with a shaking hand, looked at the screen. As though the  battery in the phone exploded, Abbey threw the phone onto the sofa next to Karmen Pedaru.

     ”They set me up with fucking Percy Jackson: The Lightning Thief. No girl has ever said, ‘You know who I wish I could go to a superficial and increasingly hate burdened gala with? Percy Jackson, thief of lightning.’”

    Karmen Pedaru picked up the phone, not believing Abbey could be so lucky, and she was right. “Abbey. This is not the lightning thief.”

    “Oh!” Abbey said, “Thank God.”

    “This is Jack the Giant Slayer,” Karmen Pedaru corrected.

    “Kill me,” Abbey begged.

    Karmen Pedaru reviewed Abbey then informed her, “He wouldn’t, you’re not tall enough.”

    “What did I do to get stuck with such a loser?” Abbey whined.

     Deathly serious, Karmen Pedaru told Abbey, “Jack The Giant Slayer is the number 2 movie in box office history in Estonia, right behind John Carter From Mars.”

      Abbey crumpled onto the couch and moaned, “This is the shittiest thing to happen to me since that time that I thought I was dating Percy Jackson: Lightning Thief.”

      “That was two minutes ago,” Karmen Pedaru reminded her.

      2 minutes on the couch turned into 2 hours.

      2 hours on the couch turned into 2 days.

     After being forced to try on very un-punk gray dresses, Abbey found herself wandering around Chelsea trying to find “punk.”

     How could an industry so oblivious to what punk means, actively choose to celebrate it?

     Abbey decided that she would be the one to bring punk to the Met Gala. She wanted people to take pictures of her, then add snapchat titles like “we found punk in a punkless place.”

     Chelsea populated with  women in yoga pants and men with strollers and businessmen with shaved heads, not because they wanted to scare “the man” but instead because they were the man, with male pattern baldness.

     Without warning, in this cluster of sheep, punk pushed her way toward Abbey, creating a rift in the ease of the afternoon.

     Abbey finally understood what punk was when she saw Freja again, finally.

  • It was a woman with a hair cut exactly how she wanted it, even if it cost her jobs.
  • It was a woman, her body, a canvas, exactly how she wanted it, even if it cost her jobs.
  • It was a woman, her clothes exactly how she wanted them, even if it cost her jobs.
  • It was a woman, alone. Like she wanted? Without a job?

    Everyone took note of Freja with a curious mix of offense, intrigue, and fear. Freja walked 23rd street the same way she walked a runway and this is how she commanded both locals. This is why Freja repeated in Abbey’s heart like the same three punk cords played aggressively as possible. 

    Freja didn’t notice Abbey on that street, passing by the frozen and frail girl without so much as a glance. It was then Abbey began to despise her angel white hair that she modeled after that cat on the balcony.

    Before the Met Gala, Abbey decided she would dye her hair brown- like it was when Freja knew her so well. 

     Breaking out of the freeze of hurt, Abbey scurried to the fleeing Freja.

     She grabbed Freja’s left bicep while letting out a perky “Hi!” Abbey’s thumb pressed down on the gun on Freja’s arm, and Freja turned to her- not alarmed, but ready. 

     Or maybe not ready.

     Freja’s mouth fell open and Abbey tried to say something, but she was embarrassed at her bubblegum pop voice. 

     Abbey stared at that face that was so similar to the one that used to lay on the pillow next to hers at night. The image slowly blurred as Abbey held in her tears.

    Instead of the song ending abruptly, like a punk song, it merely faded out.


    “Oh my gosh, your date banged Jennifer Lawrence!” Wixson cawed at Abbey Lee at the after party for the Met Gala. 

     ”Ew,” was all Abbey could muster. She had failed at bringing punk to the Met Gala, simple because Freja was not there.

      Then it hit her. As Abbey was going through her purse, looking for her black eyeliner pencil, Wixon continued talking. ”Jennifer Lawrence is so Middle America that she makes me look like Spike Lee!” Wixson said, pleased that she might be able to snag a big star who is the lead in the single most promising Hollywood franchise about slaying giants.

      “Sorry Wix, I’m going to go to the bathroom,” Abbey said, getting up. 

      “Don’t worry!” Wixson called to the escaping Abbey, “I’m going to go talk to your boyfriend Jack and suggest that in his next movie he slays Karlie.”

      When Abbey returned from the bathroom, she was sure that she finally understood the theme of the night. She was ready to steal everyone’s lightning.

     Abbey, after only glimpsing Freja, realized what no one else at the after party got.

     Punk was about repeating your mistakes, loudly.

     Punk was about rallying against the way things are, while offering no solution.

     Punk was as much about the envelope as it was about the message inside.

     Punk was about turning up the sheer volume of it all until everyone had no choice but to listen.

     Abbey could not be silenced, even as she put her gray dress in her mouth.

     Repeating the past like a screamed chorus, Abbey reached for Freja’s gun again. 


***NOTE: All this was fictional. None of it ever happened, at all. This is all made up and the fact I have to state this makes me hate everyone***

IF YOU LIKED MY PIECE, PLEASE BUY MY NOVEL “Famous For Nothing” by T/James Reagan for only $3.99- HERE 

41. FrejAbbeyZona →

Your homework for this week is to read the first FrejArizona that I wrote back in 2011 (link below), because later this week, I’m posting a sequel to the “Endings” chapter called “Gun Control” and it might not make sense otherwise.

                                                                        (or plz buy my novel)




“Abbeybaby, can I talk to you?” Freja asked, walking out onto the deck of the opulent mansion they had been renting ever since Freja had returned from shooting the Pirelli calendar.

“I’m kind of busy right now,” Abbey said, then went back to focusing on the task in front of…   (CLICK LINK TO CONTINUE)

FrejArizona- Tropico Coming Soon


   Arizona opened the door and felt immediate disappointment.

    Lana Del Rey had returned.

    “Hi Lana,” Arizona said begrudgingly.

    “Hello. I, ah, was wondering if Freja was here?” Lana said nervously.

    “She’s busy,” Arizona responded. She had been holding a grudge ever since Lana abducted Freja and forced her to tour America in a classic convertible.

    “Busy doin’ what?” Lana asked in her airy voice.

    “Freja is busy sitting topless in the window, eating fruit,” Arizona said, making it clear that there would not be another kidnapping.

    “That certainly does sound like Freja,” Lana responded with a little giggle.

    After a short beat, Arizona said, “I’ll tell her you stopped by.”

    Lana nodded solemnly, then said, “Before I go, I have a question.”

    “I really should be getting this top off so I can go feed Freja strawberries,” Arizona said, pointing back towards the bedroom.

    “Arizona, have you ever put your heart into something beautiful, then it becomes so perfect that you refuse to share it with the world?” Lana asked.

    The question caught Arizona off guard, but she instantly knew the answer, “Yes. I have,” Arizona said.

    “What did you do about it?” Lana asked.

    “I think… I hid her. Maybe it was wrong, but it was something I had to do, so, I guess… I didn’t care if it was wrong,” Arizona said, averting her eyes to a fixed point, past Lana.

    “You wanted to protect her, right?”

    “No,” Arizona said, moving her head back and forth. “No, that’s not it. I think, in the end, I tarnished that beautiful thing by not sharing it. That’s not protection. That’s… something else.”

    “So you’re telling me I should release Tropico and I’ll feel better?” Lana asked.

    “Hm,” Arizona pondered, “I saw paparazzi pics from the set and you look kinda fat in the so you probably won’t feel better if you release it.”

    Lana nodded at this. It’s hard to be called fat, but it helps when the critique comes from a beautiful bisexual fashion model, and not another fat person. “It takes one to know one,” Lana thought. Arizona isn’t fat. She’s not even Daphne G. in late 2012 “alleged” fat. Arizona is skinny, so fat to her is like sex tape Kim Kardashian instead of most people’s standard of fat- present day Kim Kardasian.

    Despite the critique, Lana pressed on. “Tropico is just everything I wanted and-“

    “-it doesn’t have one of those fucking ten minute interludes where you just say a bunch of shit that sounds like a mix between Native American proverbs, a high school senior’s tumblr text posts, and Haruki Murakami’s retarded cousin’s livejournal does it?”

    Lana became immediately silent, “Of course not,” Lana cooed.

    “How long is Tropico?” Arizona asked.

    “About 40 minutes.”

    “Oh fuck off, you’re telling me that there are no monologues in there?” Arizona said, calling Lana out, unwilling to sit and watch another self indulgent fartfest like the “Ride” video.

    Lana had to think fast. She was already scheduling re-shoots so that she could eliminate the 15 monologues in Tropico.

    “I thought so,” Arizona said, interrupting Lana’s silence.

    “There aren’t any!” Lana squeaked. “No monologues. Promise.”

    “Then what takes up the forty minutes?” Arizona asked, then arched a perfect eyebrow.

    Lana took a deep breath then started listing things, “Albinos. Strippers. Angels. Wizards. Dwarves. Little people who find the term ‘dwarf’ offensive, but are friends with the self-identifying dwarves. Oh, and some of it might take place in the garden of Eden… and South Central LA.”

    “At no time did I feel any of those thing you just listed are justified or necessary for the type of video your music demands,” Arizona said, almost impressed at how off course Lana had gotten.

    “Oh,” Lana responded, then touched her lips to calm herself. She  tried to explain, “When I was writing it-“

    “-Oh no,” Arizona sighed, then rested her head on the door frame.

    Lana continued, “I was girl far away, yet so close. Home was always mutating, the walls changing colors, and the doorway was a kind stranger’s open arms. The camera was my eyes, the script was my lips, the film was my heart. Some of the film was unusable- too full with holes. Pieces were missing. The editing process was me paring everything down and slicing away at my very being until all that was left is Tropico.”

     “Lana you just went into into a pointless monologue about how there are no pointless monologues in Tropico.”

    “I was… getting it out of my system?” Lana said. Arizona stared at her. “Like an engine being suffocated by water I attempted to push out the poison from my iro-“

    “-Lana! Stop it. Stop. Stop. Stop. You’re like Ginsberg if he was interested in press on nails instead of little boys.”

    All of the yelling made Freja leave her post at the window and she walked into the room, holding a plate of strawberries.

   Lana realized that this was a sign she had to go. “You’re right, it’s useless. Tropico is going to stay hidden.”

    “No,” Freja said, and the room went silent.

      Freja let the silence hang, then finally said, “Don’t give up your art. Take it from someone who is constantly revolting against their God given purpose in life, once you start hiding pieces of yourself, you start forgetting where you left them.”

    Arizona and Lana stared at Freja for a long time.

    The grunge girl princess had paused for a moment and wondered what life would have been like if she never gave up her crown.

    “Know what?” Lana responded, “You’re right.”

    “You’re going to release Tropico?” Freja asked.

    Lana pressed her puffy lips together and nodded.

    “When?” Arizona asked.

   “Soon,” Lana said, then Arizona slammed the door in her face.


If you liked this piece please buy my book Famous For Nothing by T/James Reagan.

FrejArizona: Cat & Mouse

(Authors Note) Sorry I pulled a “total Freja” and disappeared completely for a while. I was working on my novel, but now that it’s been released I can resume chronicling the HIGHLY FICTITIOUS story of fashion’s favorite ”Are they/aren’t they touching each other’s butts?” couple, FrejArizona.


   Karl L. summoned Freja to an emergency meeting at the CHANEL Compound (location:classified) (but they sent Freja some Mapquest directions to get there).

    Freja agreed to meet on such short notice because Karl had been a wreck ever since his short film “Once Upon A Time" was (harshly) reviewed by YouTube user Brij Mohan. Brij had this to say about Karl’s short film, "This is , so breathe stopping, u feel lost in it.” Karl told Freja that he didn’t eat for days after he read Brij’s review. He also told Freja the review bothered him. “I didn’t want my film to be breathe stopping,” Karl said solemnly, “The film is 18 minutes long, even master magician, Chriss Angel, cannot breathe-stop for 18 minutes. Everyone who has seen my film is probably dead,” Karl lamented. It was almost as though “Once Upon a Time” somehow ended up as a French remake of “The Ring”, or, as the Japanese call it, “Ringu,” or, as that annoying girl in Urban Outfitters calls it, “A movie was actually based on a book you stupid assholes. It was a book. It was a series of books. And mangas. Fuck, you’re all idiots.”

    Freja came to Karl’s aid and was immediately greeted by the image of Karl, on a white rug, in a white room. He purred, “Welcome to casa de CHANEL.”

   ”Aren’t you German?” Freja asked, then just stood there because Karl did not offer her a carpet to get down on. Freja briefly, yet fondly, thought of Arizona.

   ”I am still German,” Karl said proudly, then immediately added, “But Choupette’s nanny speaks Spanish so I obviously I learned Spanish to make sure she wasn’t saying damaging things to Choupette in a foreign tongue.”

    “Is Choupette your new boytoy?” Freja asked, “What happened to Baptiste?”

    “I had a life-sized chocolate statue of Baptiste made and I forgot to tell him about it, so when he woke up that morning and he saw the chocolate statue, he thought he was looking in a mirror. Immediately, he was convinced he had been turned to chocolate, and he couldn’t even enjoy eating his arm off because ‘…chocolate will make it impossible to fit in my cutoff jeanshorts,’ he told me. He was right, so I had to put him down,” Karl said regretfully.

    “Baptiste is definitely still alive,” Freja said, as she remembered avoiding him at a party Arizona had dragged her along to one breezy summer night.

    “Of course he is,” Karl said, then he pressed a gloved fist to his heart, and said, “He’s alive… here.”

    “Did you eat chocolate Baptiste after Baptiste convinced you he was made of chocolate?” Freja asked, piecing it together.

      Karl swallowed, fixed his sunglasses, then bellowed, "Choupette!"

     A white cat that had previously blended into the all white surroundings trotted over happily to Karl.

     ”Your cat is Choupette?” Freja asked, “Didn’t you mention Choupette has a maid?”

     ”Yes, only a maid, singular, because we had to let the other maid go. She spoke Russian and I couldn’t find a Russian boytoy to teach me the language so I couldn’t ever been sure what the Russian one was saying about Choupette.”

     ”Russian boytoys are hard to come by,” Freja confirmed, merely because it was the least ridiculous of statements Karl had made.

    “Not only just boytoys, good help is hard to find,” Karl said, probably looking Freja in the eye- Freja couldn’t be sure because Karl’s glasses were so tinted. “I have called you here to help me, Freja,” Karl finally said.

     Freja was about to tell Karl she didn’t model anymore, but she was interrupted as Karl proudly proclaimed, “Choupette is a top model.”

    Freja wondered how modeling could change so much since she left. Had models been replaced by cats? 

    Karl, reading the confusion on Freja’s face, continued to explain, “CatFancy teamed up with Models.com to create the MDC Top 50 Cat Models. “Choupette…” Karl said, then briefly choked up, “… was number two on the list. Do you know who was number one?”

    Freja considered what she was being told. Was this some sort of list of models… that look like cats… “K-Mitt?” Freja guessed.

    “No,” Karl said, “Grumpy Cat beat precious Choupette!”

    “What the fuck is Grumpy Cat?” Freja asked.

    “My reaction exactly,” Karl said. “I googled Grumpy Cat and he is so ugly he could have walked Marc Jacobs SS14.”

     ”Why is the cat popular?” Freja asked, confused again.

     ”Because of his blogworthniess,” Karl said.

     ”You called me here so I could make your cat a blog?” Freja asked. It seemed like a task better suited for someone with tons of free time and some web design experience, like Coco Rocha.

     ”No, that is silly, Freja,” Karl said, laughing, “Of course Choupette has a blog already. Her intern runs it.”

     ”Karl!” Freja said forcefully. “Why the fuck am I here?”

     ”Together,” Karl said dramatically, “You and I will turn Choupette into a cat burglar.” 

     ”You mean like Oscar winning Halle Berry in Catwoman?”

     ”Precisely like Oscar winning Halle Berry in Catwoman,” Karl said, excited Freja shared his vision.

     ”How will Choupette burglarize stuff with no thumbs?” Freja asked. “Oscar winning Halle Berry was so good as Catwoman because she had thumbs.”

     ”Here’s where you are wrong,” Karl said, then he held up Choupette’s paw. “Her manicurist showed me that she does, in fact, have thumbs.”

     Freja visually confirmed that, yes, Choupette did have thumbs like Oscar winning actress Halle Berry.

    “What’s our target for the burglary? The fingerless gloves store?” Freja asked sarcastically.

    “Those motherfuckers at the “Gloves With Fingers” store put the fingerless glove store out of business,” Karl yelled spitefully, but calmed himself by petting Choupette then saying, "Our target… is The Sunglass Hut."

    “How are we breaking in there?” Freja asked. Arizona had been telling Freja how bright the sun had been lately so maybe a gift of some new sunglasses would earn Freja some extra minutes watching Arizona do yoga in the morning.

    “We are breaking in, by, I don’t know… taking one of the walls off,” Karl said, simply, “A hut is super easy to break into. It’s like in the top 5 easiest places to break into right after Paris Hilton’s house.”

    Freja began to worry about the plan. “You know the Sunglass Hut isn’t a literally hut right?”

     Karl looked off into the corner of the room, saying nothing, embarassed.

   ”It’s sort of like how Amazon doesn’t sell pieces of rainforest or MTV doesn’t play music or John Galliano doesn’t actually design the clothing line John Galliano anymore,” Freja said.

    “We will rob the Sunglass Hut no matter how poorly named it is,” Karl decided, and that was that. Moving onto the next topic, Karl said, “You will wear this.”

    Freja looked around. “Wear what?” she asked.

   Karl snapped his fingers and a distinctly not-German boytoy walked in the room and handed Karl a carefully folded outfit.

    Freja’s eyes got wide. “Is that the original costume used in Oscar winning Halle Berry’s film Catwoman?” she asked excitedly.

    “No. Better,” Karl said, presenting the garment to his model.

    “That’s a rat costume,” Freja said.

   Karl nodded at this. “You will be the rat that convinces the cat burglar to enter in the Sunglass Hut.”

   Freja looked at Choupette. Freja knew what it felt like to be put on a list, while being judged for the work she did, or, recently, the work she didn’t do.

    “Fine,” Freja said, taking the mouse costume, then sliding it on her perfect body.

    Karl squealed with glee and produced a camera from out of thin air like he was master magician Chriss Angel. Immediately, Karl started taking pictures of Freja and, instantly, Freja’s instincts returned. Freja’s entire body tingled, and not just because the rat costume was made out of uncomfortable material. In front of the camera again, Freja found a part of herself that she thought had been stolen long ago.

    Freja decided that she would do whatever it takes to make Choupette a cat burgler because,  in a way, Choupette helped Freja become a model again. 


If you enjoyed this FICTIONAL STORY, you can buy my book for only $3.99 here.

    America felt too overwhelming for the Denmarkian queen, Freja.

    Freja was used to… whatever happens in Denmark. Probably lots of pot smoking and sledding and Hamlet.

    Freja felt America was too sprawling, like that Arcade Fire song. Freja wasn’t even sure if Arcade Fire was from America. Things were that confusing for her. 

    “Maybe I should just go back to Denmark and play Claudius in Hamlet,” Freja said to Arizona as they relaxed, intertwined on the sofa.

    “No! We have our beautiful mansion here,” Arizona protested, “Plus I read Hamlet in high school and I’m pretty sure they mentioned that Claudius had bad cheekbones.”

    “Aw,” Freja responded, finding it cute that Arizona went to high school. She is so full of surprises. Like that surprise about being a pregnant lesbian.

    “I now exactly how to get you to love America,” Arizona said. She was named after a state so she felt a certain responsibility towards this country. 


2 days later


    Still laying in each others arms on the sofa, Arizona asked Freja, “Remember when you said you hated America?”

    “Zona, you make me sound militant,” Freja said. She never claimed to “hate America”.

    “Well, you are sort of militant when we play Zero Dark Thirty angry interrogator vs. sexy terrorist roleplay,” Arizona said with a sly smile.

    Freja purred at this, but the moment is interrupted by the doorbell.

    “That must be your America coach!” Arizona shrieked, excited, then ran to the door.

    Ten minutes later, after walking across FrejArizona’s palatial mansion, Arizona arrived with Freja’s new coach on all things American.

    “Freja, I’d like you to meet Lana Del Rey.”

    Lana Del Rey extended her clawed hand to Freja.

    Freja looked up at Lana and smiled.

    In an airey, distant voice, Lana cooed, “Freja, I feel responsible to bathe you in Americana.

    Freja hoped “Americana” was a brand of bubble bath. It sounded nice.

    Before Freja knew it, she was swept into the back of a black convertible.

    Lana’s clawed fingers gripped the wheel and they blasted down the highway.

    “Here,” Lana said, passing back a can of Pepsi, “Drink this.”

    Freja grabbed the open soft drink and took a sip, “It’s good,” she said.

   ”That’s what my vagina tastes like,” Lana yelled back to her.

    Freja took a bigger sip. “Pepsi is great,” Freja announced.

   ”What do you want to know about America?” Lana asked.

   ”Tell me what America means to you,” Freja requested, holding the can of Lana’s vagina and watching the American landscape pass by in a blur.

     Lana stared out towards the open road and monologued, “America is a poem of the free, written on the back of an eagle. I was a lost girl, hugging the map filled with peaks and valleys. The roads, these bright black snakes, were build by calloused men, who worked hard for their women. When they came home, they loved even harder than they worked. It was a time without rules, and I was a referee without a whistle. As I traveled, it was both the kindness and the sinister nature of man that provided me a home and cradled my overly hairsprayed Jackie-O hairdo. My pitch was not perfect- like an aging Yankee hanging onto once greatness, but the crowd didn’t care. They came to see me, not a strike. But strike we did, it was our right and we protected our right, we fought for our right, we stood up for our right, we sat down for our right and, always, we were American.”

    There was a pause in the convertible as only the wind spoke.

    “What the fuck was that?” Freja yelled up to Lana.

    “I don’t know, lets go find some black guys to make out with,” Lana suggested.

    “I’m a lesbian,” Freja pointed out.

    “No, you’re anti-American,” Lana said definitively. 

     Freja realized, as she cruised down the sunny roads of this great country with a highly cosmetically retouched pop star in the front seat, that this is why America is great; your vagina could become a beverage, your opinions didn’t have to make sense and your girlfriend will be waiting at home for you, ready to do some sexy waterboarding roleplay with you. 


If you liked this piece and you’d like to read my fiction manuscripts, please contact me.

Freja Beha For iPod Mini.

    “Ladies and Gentleman,” Freja called out loudly to the attendees of her Fall garden party. The models and rockstars stopped conversing and turned their attention to their hostess, “I present to you a revolutionary product that will change your life,” Freja bellowed out, her hands behind her back, a sly smile punctuating her sentence, “I bring you…” she teased for effect, “THE IPOD MINI!”

    Everyone was silent as Freja held up a scratched  upside-down iPod. Two foreign people took pictures of her doing this, just because no one has seen a fucking picture of Freja in, like, forever. Everyone else was confused. The party was packed. Saskia, Karl, Karmen Pedaru, Abbey and, regrettably, Charlottee Free were all in attendance.

     Arizona clapped amorously at her Demarkian queen and, slowly, the party followed suit.

     ”Why is she doing this?” Saskia de Brauw asked Arizona.

     Saskia had been invited to this party as a sign that there is “no hard feelings” for her taking over Chanel from Freja. Freja was happy to learn that a Saskia de Brauw was a person and not a luxury single cup coffee maker.

     Arizona continued clapping, and leaned in towards Saskia’s weird man haircut. She whispered, “Freja has a lot of free time so she’s gotten really into eBay. She’s very proud of her purchases and last month we had a garden party for a Shamwow so this is actually much better.”

     ”How did the Shamwow party go over?” Saskia asked.

      “Poorly,” Arizona said, flush with memories of Freja pouring red wine on Valentino’s white pants, then attempting to clean it up with a made for TV yellow rag.

      “This does seem better,” Saskia whispered back.

      “This iPod mini,” Freja announced, “Is the most cutting edge piece of technology that has been ever entrusted to a model.”

     ”What about when Shalom’s dress was painted by that robot at Mcqueen?” Karmen Pedaru asked.

      “Shalom was assaulted by that robot, it wasn’t entrusted to her,” Freja said, “If you all showed up and I started pelting you with iPod Mini’s, then maybe it would be comparable, but I would never do that. I respect technology too much and I don’t want to be targeted by paint machines in the future. My wardrobe is black for a reason,” Freja explained.

     ”Did Apple ask you to do this?” Wixson asked, confused by what was happening.

     ”Yes and no,” Freja responded. “After a night of heavy eBaying, I was visited in a dream by Will Gates.”

     ”I think you mean Bill Gates,” Karmen Pedaru said.

     ”Bill Gates is still alive, how could his ghost visit you?” Saskia asked.

     ”The spirit world is not governed by conventional laws of our terrestrial realm,” Abbey said distantly.

      “Exactly. Extraterrestrials created that shit and brought it to us in exchange for human lives,” Charlotte Free said, sitting at the childrens table with that 15 year old that walked for Prada and Ming Xi who would just repeat the last word of everything anyone said, then furrow her eyebrows in a vague expression that showed neither opinion nor comprehension.

      “I don’t mean to be a downer,” Mariacarla Boscono said, but everyone knew this would be a downer statement because no one has ever seen Mariacarla smile. “But I have the new iphone 5 with a gorilla glass retina display and a questionable maps program… that’s why I was late today,” Mariacarla stated matter of factly. She held up her phone and Freja marched over to inspect it.

      As Freja passed by Ming, Ming held up her iphone 3g that was surrounded in a case with little rubber cat ears, “Kitty,” Ming said. Freja continued until Mariacarla’s shiny iphone and Freja’s scratched ipod mini were next to each other.

     ”That sucks and is stupid,” Freja said, looking at the iphone 5.

     ”Ohh, an Android fangirl,” Mariacarla retorted.

     ”No, she hates androids, didn’t you hear her talk about Mcqueen?” Wixson pointed out.

     ”It looks like the perfect size to do coke off of,” Abbey added as she admired the iphone 5.

     ”It looks like like the tool of someone with penis envy,” Freja said.

     ”Penis envy,” Ming repeated, confused.

     ”I’m sorry, but that iPod came out in like 2005,” Maricarla said to Freja.

     ”And so did you,” Arizona said to Mariacarla, defending Freja’s factory refurbished purchase.

     ”Everything that can do, my phone can do,” Mariacarla snipped, becoming competitive, as iphone 5 users tend to do.

     ”Yes, but your iphone 5 accepts calls,” Freja said, “Pointless.”

     ”How is that pointless? It’s a phone.”

     ”When is the last time any of you called someone on the phone?” Freja questioned.

      The party was silent.

      “My agent called me to wake me up for this super early 2pm shoot,” Charlotte Free said and Wixson scolded her, “God hurts when you do lies.”

      “Wixson is right,” Freja confirmed.

      “Wixson right?” Ming repeated and her confusion finally seemed appropriate.

      “Yes. Lies are bad and ipod touches are the truth,” Freja declared. “They are skinny and they are beautiful,” Freja admired, holding the iPod Mini upsidedown again. “They are packed with greatness and they work for up to eight hours at a time without needing to recharge their batteries. They’re replaced by newer sleeker versions ever couple years. They don’t accept phone calls and they break easily when dropped,” Freja said, then, finally, it all became clear as Freja’s thesis was spoken, “iPod Mini’s are the fashion models of the technology world.”

       ”I am ipod,” Ming said and Freja nodded at her, “Yes you are, Ming. Yes you are.”


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