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Listen bud. It’s only me and you in this J. C. Penny Portrait Story, and we’re gonna be here for quite some time. Your mom and her “Hundai” will not be back until long after the garden section closes, so let’s get comfy here. I appreciate your patronage, but let’s get something straight: this isn’t Picture People, this is the real world. My camera, MY greenscreen, MY EMPLOYEE ID card. My rules. We’ve got sixteen vaguely pixel-colored backgrounds to go through, and a screaming toddler a room over, so let’s buckle up. What’s your name? I don’t care, it’s just for the form. I hope your mom doesn’t want me to do any of that stupid photoshop bullshit, because we have bigger fish to fry in this photo studio. Also I don’t know how to use it. I’m learning, alright? So we should probably get this out of the way early: I know that framed picture you’re holding is not your girlfriend. Where is she from? Hmm? California? Europe? Oh…you don’t say...Canada. And you’re taking this girl to prom,
nd girlfrielive again?
are you? Look, your Harry Styles impression is cute, but pining for a girl you can never have due to the controversial concept known as borders is a little much. Also, do you know how easy it is to get into Canada? I could go right now, leave you in this portrait studio, open a bar and never look back. But I have a parking ticket to pay, and my boyfriend is kind of emotionally immature, so here we are. It might seem cool to lie to me about who the hell you’re dating, but it is in fact the lowest point I hope you ever reach in your life. I’m getting paid minimum wage here to take your pictures for the prom, and that is clearly a picture of Ashley and/or Mary Kate Olsen. Mary Kate sometimes stands behind Ashley; it’s like an optical illusion. And they aren’t even Canadian you fuck! You can’t walk into my domain wearing some rented tux, holding a picture frame and your mom’s credit card and expect me not to ask any questions. Hey! Hey! Cheese, loser. Wow that one’s going on the fridge. No, you can’t see it, don’t be greedy.
Adult life is hard, and it’s time for you to upgrade to a body pillow or join the real world. No, we don’t have any body pillows for you to lean the frame against; maybe you should have been smart and used your mom’s credit card to buy one. You’re really not even trying here, and trust me, I can tell a try-hard when I see one. I took pictures for my cousin’s wedding that doubled as a local battle of the bands. I think I know what I’m talking about. You just really need to get a bit more creative, kiddo. Do you know that kid Mark? No, I didn’t write down his last name. But he came in last week with the same photo you’re holding. Except according to Mark, she was from New Zealand. Pretty cool, right? That’s what I thought. You see, I believed him. 100 percent I believed him. And I still believe him. So what am I to do here, kid? I can go to Canada on the weekend, proving you wrong in one miserable road-trip with my boyfriend and his shitty roommate, Nate. But I don’t want to have to do that. And again, the parking ticket.
There’s really no getting around the parking ticket right now. My point is, you’re a fool if you think I’ll follow you blindly. You think you’re the first kid to come in here with a photo of a C-list celebrity, ready to pass them off as the love of your life? Well guess again, because you’re the second. Just tell me kiddo, where does she live? Where does your candy-coated daydream skype you from? How many Canadian cities can you actually name? Toronto? Vancouver? Ottawa? Montreal? Calgary? Prince Edward’s Isle? That last one’s technically an Isle, but that’s still actually quite a few. But it’s all a wasted effort! Because you see, if she really is Canadian, then that makes Mark a liar. And if Mark’s a liar, then what does that make me? A fool? A bad photographer? A bad feminist? I’m begging you kid: Give up on this game now, before it goes any further. Because when it comes down to it, you can’t sneak into a backroom and make out with a lie. And that’s really a big part of prom.
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