Shirley Poodles had been called by her surname ever since her mother had the errant effrontery to plant the said appellation on to her small, somewhat irregularly placed daughter’s shoulders.
To add further insult to the proverbial injury incurred, Shirley Re: Poodles had an ever curly, effervescent, buoyancy of massive protruding, tinged with bright springs of crude, rude, ginger hair that perfectly complimented her canine allure.
Unfortunately this was combined with Shirley’s galloping gait, which merely reinforced the application of that once so fond juggling of proper nouns.
Its usage eventually became practiced by the wider and less biologically primed to love community. Therefore, having extended from the nucleus of her cosy, family hub, the pet name, pardon the pun, stuck fast and Shirley’s fate became irredeemably sealed and shut tight.
“What’s in a name after all?” said Shirley, shrugging uneven poodley shoulders, whilst raising her corkscrew eyebrows somewhat quizzically to quote by rote “a rose by any other name” in a misguided attempt to convince herself of the belief she clearly didn’t have.
People would courteously nod in marked and too agreeable haste with an affable cordiality, so eager to please THE POOR UNFORTUNATE WERE THEY!
Deep down however, in her privately secret self Shirley was not, nor could be pleased. Ever!
Shirley nursed a malign and fervently fermenting resentment towards people, poodles, hair, shoulders, ginger tinges and any discernable length of stride a person may in any event exhibit. In short, Shirley was in the unremitting firing line of her own attack with no defence.
Nasty, spite ridden, plotting, planning, unexpectedly waylaying and abducting self hatred barred her any and every attempt to interact in the wide and can be so wicked world at large.
In fact, it could be said, the unavoidable collateral damage we all collect through our embarkation into the thrusts, throes and busy throngs of living existence pale to an insignificant hue, when compared to the self-mediated damage inflicted by the red raging bull of Shirley’s habitually activated self-hatred.
Members of the anonymous conglomerate of public persons, looming largely unaware of Shirley’s own inflicted afflictions, would assume on initial encounter that Shirley was an empowered woman of positively radiant and assertive confidence. Over weaned on self regarding appreciation and fully enamoured of her own er?… charms, despite her poodley behaviour and appearance.
But no, Alas! Shirley’s utter self-loathing had thoroughly fenced her off with remarkable effectiveness from all other possibilities to reappraise her status. She could not alter the fated course of her destined and defeating tendencies, nor possibly procure any path through life’s vicissitudes and some may say character building challenges.
Character building my arse” retorted Shirley to the life coach she once enlisted to conjure a miraculous release from the imprisonment of her punitive mental confinements.
Opportunity to Grow “Fuck my tits and suck your own nob off you spindly louse” was her parting repartee to the wiry therapist, steeped in bookish lore and recent theory based on empirical evidence.
Shirley clearly was an individual who needed no enemy to take down in envy the mast of her little life’s ship. An accomplished mistress in the dark art of self sabotage, she was busy sinking her own boat and refusing to swim before anybody could even get a chance to shipwreck the character she so dearly deplored.
Every career plotted after every career attempted came ignominiously tumbling down. Each early promise of relationship or social network inevitably tensed, frayed to shreds and collapsed to oblivion. Dreams hopes and wishes shattered repeatedly to land flat at her despairing feet.
Shirley finally could tolerate the situation no longer and intensely scrutinizing her hated features in a mirror opted for the plastic route to liberation.
She would cash in all her investments, harvest as many loans as possible and hocking all her goodly chattels seek a surgeon to re-mould her appearance.
Oh Yes! Off would toss the ginger curls. On with the transplants, implants, pump ups and outs, nips in and tucks to stitch her into acceptable cutedom.
A bit more here and a lot less there would do and better do the trick at all costs.
Costs it did.
The surgeon was extremely happy with the result for his heaving bank balance became extra hefty with Shirley’s hazardous and varied schedule of treatments. Even the private and personally assigned, expensively paid nurse was rather impressed with the unexpected, but magnificent outcome!
For when the last surgery had been committed and the coiling bandage unwound, people exclaimed in awe at the tremendous, stupendous beauty that sat before them.
The mirror was duly handed to Shirley to inspect the results with all breaths bated.
Shirley peeked hesitant and nervous at the reflection, then full face beaming on she lit up like a Christmas tree streaming with fluorescents.
Heartfelt tears of gratitude scrolled rapidly down her cheeks, as she was greeted with the unbelievably stunning image in the mirror.
Years of unalleviated self hatred simply evaporated. The tight, loathsome and so tormented grip from the deepness of her once unreachable and very personal innards had loosened and simply left, as she appraised her new features with unadulterated pleasure.
Shirley felt light and bright and happy for Shirley was free. Shirley was beautiful and could love herself. Shirley had recast her fate along with the surgical plaster that painfully had encased her limbs.
As she leapt off the vetinary couch Shirley gave a woof of delight, shook her bobbing doggy mane and trotted into her canine and happily drooling future.