Elle by Nouf Al Nafisee

Posted on October 15, 2012 by

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Who is Elle? Learn a little bit about her here.

 

I get called a bitch at least five times a day. I don’t really mind it though; it’s part of the job.

 

My name? Oh, it’s Elle. Well actually, it’s Lahela, but I gave that one up long ago! Allow me to inform you that I am not one of multiple Mormon wives. Call me Elle.

 

I’m the person that does the jobs that nobody likes to think about. I have had many unsettling experiences that include collecting the wax strips from bikini wax spas, cleaning each and every “Uranus” in a pet store, and don’t even get me started on being a birth instructor.  I’ve never even been pregnant! At least being a tattooist doesn’t go below the belt. Mostly.

 

I used to have a life once. Oh, don’t look so shocked! I went to Harvard law. In fact, I was an honour student for two years and i could have graduated top of my class! But you know what? Life happened, or death. Call it what you want.

 

You don’t look so curious, but I’m going to tell you what happened. Why? I’m slightly wasted and it’s kind of your job. Speaking of your job, I’d like another drink. My parents were paying my tuition and their passing was sudden. They left me nothing but an unpaid mortgage and my dog, peanut. I had to let go of that one on purpose.

 

You know what I did at work today? I quit before my boss had the time to fire me.

 

You see, this very well-dressed man walked into the store you’d least expect him to be in, ours. Now I might be so broke that I have to settle for moulding cheese as lunch, but I know an Armani when I see one. He wanted a picture of his girlfriend inked into the flesh on his back. My GOD, she was atrocious. That twig of a human being had hair so plastic, for all I know she plucked it right Barbie doll. No, a Bratz doll. Those are sluttier. Her back that was sprayed a with a bright pumpkin hue was on full display. I felt sorry for that guy. She probably gets spray tan on all his white shirts.

 

I felt sympathy towards him until I knew where he worked. The rich lowlife works at the bank that took away my home and put my once jolly father in a refined depression.

 

At that time and place, my destined purpose in life dawned on me: to become the worst tattooist in existence. I stabbed with my needle reasonably deeper than required, made sure my DNA got onto the wound, and topped it of with slight adjustments to the picture. Instead of having her flimsy arm propped on her hipbone, I made sure it was elevated and her middle finger was erect.

 

I hope he gets an infection. And skin cancer.

 

Just like all the other times I screwed up, my only familiar option was to walk away in utter disgust with myself. In the past two years, I have endured being broke, being alone, and even death. You’d think I would have complained myself through the years, huh? You’re wrong, but you know what finally broke me? Today, I was supposed to be graduating. All those sleepless nights and tutors, for what? My ending up in a suffocating Irish pub on my supposed graduation day? Where’s MY cap and long robe? Where’s MY piece of paper that proves that I have a brain? I know Steve Jobs was a college drop out, but I’m no Steve Jobs.

 

I used to epitomize another level of “The Little Engine that Could”. Now, I’m just a moth without a flame.

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