Chimp Learns Sign Language.

Wearing pumps like a flamingo steadily hitting the lower end of a bucket of mud, she swaggers into a debutante ball for no one but her self-made stuffed animals tethered to the six foot feather boa lazily swinging from her neck like a pendulum. Threadbare stockings keep her bloated thighs from spilling down upon the dance floor as she does a mechanical tango across the sheen of tiles to keep her image up. She's tense. She's intensely aware of no one but herself. He's staying away intentionally and she doesn't know it. Flipping a lazy hand into the air, a gesture she thinks is a nonchalant wave to a lover, she eyes him across the haze of her drug overdosages. Creation was a myth. It's written all over her face. Everything can and will be undone. These days of opulence and pleasure have taken their toll. She pops another prescription and toils around the inside of his viewing area squirming lugubriously. Tears of graceful junk slowly roll down her cheeks; she's spinning fast for freedom from this world. He walks up to her, finally, with a terse smirk upon his face; those judgemental eyes finally scanning the image that she has stubbornly become. He looks her in her jaded, stupefied eyes while refreshing his breath and says, "Are you experience?" She looks at his feet while golden flair of earrings jangle with the abrupt adjustment of her head. She answers, "I am Crank Styles of the Rich and Anonymous."