Flamingo’s Dream has never missed a church social, eats all the watermelon at the weekly buffet, shoving the rinds in her purse to take home to her poodle. Flamingo never goes out without makeup, “putting her face on,” hoping to catch the eye of a bad boy, a scoundrel, a real life ruffian, or at the very least, the mechanic named Gus at the end of the block.
Flamingo’s Dream secretly despises Florida, the manicured lawns adorned with their requisite needle-legged birds, the occasional sun-basking alligator, hoping to feast on the family dog—truly a Flamingo nightmare, instead of a dream. Other seabirds are often prone to jealousy, being drab and generally overlooked. The albatross, for example, has never understood the reference to “dead weight,” considering himself a strong and agile flyer, and the blue-footed booby is sadly only ever described as “special” from the waist down. Still, other pelagics like the Fulmar and the Frigate bird, the Gannet and the Murre, can only dream of such highfalutin ornamentation, such garishness in the name of art.
Flamingo’s Dream is self-aggrandizing, haughty and sometimes insincere, considers herself a purist, a true connoisseur of brine-shrimp and larvae, snapping her fingers at the local “The Watering Hole,” demanding the waiter bring yet another glass of Rose. Wears push-up bras and color coordinates her shoes to match, yet deep down she longs for the comfort of a good, home-cooked meal and scintillating conversation, desperate to be taken seriously, and welcomed into the literary fold of scholars, philosophers and mathematicians, or even the company of a good Sunday painter, but no one can stop staring long enough to see beyond the pink effulgence, the nearly radioactive hue next to which all else seems meaningless and dumb. So, forlorn yet undaunted, she once again resolves to embrace her roots, dying her poodle the same color as her hair and skinny dipping at the local pool, hoping someone will notice.
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