I’ll never be her, welcoming us into a private room by saying our names too loudly.  I’ll never manage to expertly process my hair so that it lies so flat and smooth, divided into an effortless side part; the roots in a state of perpetual almost-needing-a-touch-up; dark and blonde as sleekly textured as my wrap-around animal print dress.  My breasts will never have been bought, will never begin and get to their point so high up, attached as though glued to my chest like melons that never quite ripen.  I’ll never have pencil for eyebrows, except for that time I tried to make my eyebrows like hers and ended up penciling in my mistakes.  I’ll never know what it is to invite you into an endless party, to be paid to pretend I’m your best friend.  I’ll never sleep with someone to close the deal, or to celebrate closing it, or to open a new one; there’s a difference between being that kind of whore and the kind that is paid for simply selling herself, a groomed and plucked promise of an impeccably managed experience: building something substantial on a foundation of zero substance.  I’ll never ask you where you’re from and respond with a high-pitched do you LOVE it?! no matter what you say.  I’ll never be able to make girls like me uncomfortable and tripping over their words, disarmed of their irony by the kind of hot they’ll never be.  I’ll never spot a more realistic sale across the room and hand you my card, capping our conversation like a period.