Rhi is exactly how I pictured her. Part Filipino, part Czech, part Welsh, part this, part that. She’s one of those people who when you ask them what their heritage is, just rolls their eyes and rattles off a list of obscure countries you’ve never heard of as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Isn’t everyone this exotic? These types of people are bored by you.
Rhi is surrounded by sycophants who are floored by how “interesting” and unconventionally gorgeous she is. Mixed backgrounds always initiate a discussion about Brazil for some reason. And of course Rhi managed to get only the best distillation of all her “parts”: legs up to her neck, shimmering olive skin, Aquafina bottle blue eyes, and bone straight ink black hair. It’s parted two inches above her right ear and shellacked across her forehead with a number of different chucky layers. She gets it cut at DevYne, or Stereo and she’s no doubt very good friends with her stylist, a hip gay who is most certainly in attendance at Moss tonight. He’s likely snorting coke off the abs of some UFC-Tapout-juicehead-downlow-bicurious-douchebag somewhere in the corner of the club. They met in the men’s washroom over a discussion about Axe body spray.
Rhi’s outfit is miraculous—made without a doubt by another friend. It looks like something you’d see if Betsey Johnson was designing for the house of McQueen: it’s constructed out of a variety of vintage tee-shirts, all dyed a toxic pink and cut full through the abdomen before it splays out just above the knee in an explosion of violent magenta. She pulls it together with a pair of John Fluevog mary-jane boots that hug her calf like an army stomper but also provide some little-girl charm. They compliment the entire outfit with their orange buckles and pink straps.
She smokes Silk Cut cigarettes. You can’t buy them in Vancouver. She’s someone who exhaustively studies ‘cool’ and by the time you catch on to one trend she’s already disposed of it and moved on.
I decide that I hate her.