Welcome to Girl World is reopening and YOU should tryout. 
AND JOIN THE BURNOUTS. Who. Are not the same characters exactly any more, so this set I made like three weeks ago is somewhat irrelevant. Corry Kennedy as Aster still stands, and the Daisy Lowe character just has a different name. The Freja character is no longer Freja and also has a different name. Babs has moved to another group, so I wrote it that Aubrey moved away. But still. THE BURNOUTS ARE THE FOSHIZZLE.
Although, Teegs is supposed to be getting clean, so we'll see how it all pans out.

I had a dream Teegan was my friend the other night. She told me to sneak out of my room and do wild and crazy things with her. Then some surreal weirdness happened, but whatever.

When WGW stopped, Teegan's story sort of flatlined in happyland.
This is the story of what occurred in the two months or so we were away. It's lengthy. I've been working on it for a while, in spurts. 
Let the fun times roll.
What ever happened to Fay Ray?

In and out of the light, shape shifting walls and water water ka-swoogh-swoogh ear drum, death, oh, holy grail, brilliance, this may be the end. 
But was it? But is it? But is this what’s left? I forgot to say adieu to all who may be still watching my operetta, act three, dramatic death scene, downstage left. 
Or maybe this is only the intermission, and the lights are coming on bright bright bright, making your pupils dilate so fast you can actually feel them. I feel my pupils all the time, the same way you can feel a lump in your throat. Maybe this is only the intermission. Maybe I’m backstage, and no one’s wondering where I’ve gone because they all know, and maybe I’ll come back to dazzle.
Or maybe I died in act two, like my hero, dear Mertucio. His life from the opening scene to that fateful day, in vain. But what a great laugh was had. Maybe that’s me. Maybe I live. Maybe I’m in the back, smoking in five pounds of costume make-up and drinking coffee just to get through this. 
Act three, dramatic death scene, downstage left.
That’s my cue. I stub the cigarette out with my foot. I can see it all happening in my head. I’m late for my own life. My own death. 
But even those deceased can get up to take their bow.
I had to cover all my mirrors.
When you look like shit, you never want to know you look like shit. I covered all my mirrors with pictures of my self from days gone.When I was sexy as hell with a whole parade of demons and a frothy white powder keeping my skin even toned, perfect perfect, and my attention span adrenaline running, and my ribs showing. You can’t see it on my nose but its there.
There are pictures of me with one, two, three, different boys, and my four girls. I miss those girls. There’s one shot, of us, probably around the fourth of July, and it’s just us. A girl shot. There’s Aubs and Izzy to my right, Aster and Simone to my left. Of course I’m in the center. I’m the tallest. My hair is curled and swept back and my mouth is spattered red--I hold my chin high. Aster is draped around my neck with her droopy high smirky smile. Simone’s pretty deadpanned, but there’s a smirk at the corner. Aubs is looking like my wonderful regal queen b*tch. She doesn’t touch me., but I love her. And Izzy isn’t looking at the camera, looking somewhere farther, behind it, with her hand clutched around the neck of a bottle sticking out a paper bag. And we’re all illuminated in the flash. 
That was us. That was a long time ago. The photos aren’t there for nostalgic bullsh*t. They’re there so I’ll forget how I ended up where I am now. You know, looking like shit, just beginning to feel alive again.
They’re there to help me not be there again.

Back track to two months ago. August. The month was subsiding with the glory days of summer, reclining receding, going down down down with the sun. The skies were turning dried-blood. I, Miss World 2010, was at the very top of my glorious life---I had a boyfriend, I was very nearly student body president, I had a life coach who was guiding me to the light or whatever. I was practically fuckin’ sober 23/6. I could’ve gone to jail, you know, take a turn at the fork, go down that wrong wrong road and end up b*tchslave to some angry Mexican chick with a tattoo of her ex lover, ex abuser. I don’t like to think about /that/,. But thanks to ye old life coach and hot steamy afternoons with that certain boyfriend, I was living the dream of all parents have for their teenage girls. 
It’s August the 30th. I’ve decided to celebrate. 
A speakeasy. You know, a 1920s secret underground basement fest with a password and some swinging tunes [or in my case, m*sturbatory rock and roll.]. All the lovers are going to be there. All my burnout baked brownie special girls and their yummy guys, and all the dealer sleaze boys and their nerdy Asian girlfriends. I’m wearing a sequin dress with maroon lipstick and my hair tightly curled. 20 days it’s been without alcohol. 20 days. So I figure, what’s the harm?
It started well enough--a feel good get together with dancing, munchies, opium den cushion circle. Bubbles floating around like the Labyrinth. But after midnight, like some backwards Cinderella story, it all goes to the turds. 
He comes through the door all Al Capone with a support group of mobsters. It’s just his shadow at first, but that silhouette alone drives a hush over the basement. The music is stuck in some sort of skip loop--’Slam in the back of my---slam in the back--slam in the---’. I, on my fifth shot, don’t see him, until Simone comes over and whispers something. Something about uninvited guests.
He doesn’t care though, Mr. Silhouette. He steps into the light and I stop suddenly from kicking out some presumed prep. I nearly choke on my own shock and nausea. 
Elliot Fraye. 
Back from the dead. 
‘Hey, Teegan. Daddy’s home.’ He smiles, silver in his k-nines.
He wasn’t there that night. My preppy Wolverine boyfriend. Let me rephrase--he wasn’t there yet. And Elliot, my ex lover, ex drug dealer, ex Lucifer, he doesn’t fuckin’ know that I’m a different girl than he remembers from last winter. 
But remember, I’m on my fifth shot of moonshine. 
“Elllllliot! How was the Big House? What the /f*ck/ do you think you’re doing at /mmmmy/ party?”
“My baby bro invited me.” He takes off his hat. “Don’t stop just because of me.” he commands to the room. They go back to whatever they were doing before, and someone changes the CD.
[Wait, not all of it's here.]
“I am so going to kill that cute brother of yours.” I slurred and sloshed and jabbed my finger into his chest. 
Elliot grabbed me by the elbow, and I giggled, those bubbly drunk giggles. “Teegan,” he said quietly, “I forgot how hot you are.”
“Shut-up. I have a boyfriend. Like we’re sssteady. And all that.”
He leaned in, grazing my ear so only I could hear, so his Jail breath, and bad teeth were all over my neck. Thinking now, I forget what I saw in this guy, but I was too drunk at that point to give it much though. “We’ll where is he?” Elliot whispered. And his lips pecked my neck.
I pushed him away. “Get off me. Don’t fucking try that ssshit.” Elliot stumbled, but smiled in a way that scared me. He had always sacred me, I realize. There’s much too much behind that smile, and none of it genuine. I smirk, and add, “Not where everyone can see.”
Look, I’m not a bad person. I just make bad decisions. It’s a compulsion. It’s what got me where I am today.
Cut to us in the backroom where the lights are dim red, and everything’s smokey, and Elliot and I are on pillows, and I ask him to tell me about jail, and how he got out, and he spins some yarn that might have been truth but might not, and plays with my tightly curled hair. We’re alone.
Cut to him exploring me like he used to Freshman and Sophmore year. 
Cut to him taking out my dearest old friend, even before him. Somewhere, I’m going no no no, and I do say, “You are sssso sstupid. You’re on probation.” Cut to him chopping the fine snow powder into crisp white lines. Cut to Elliot blowing hookah ring kisses into my mouth and saying I don’t have to, taunting me. Always taunting. And I couldn’t say noI.
Cut to--
I don’t know. After that, it’s a mess. It’s apocalyptic. It’s four hours later or four years. My face is dripping ice water and mascara burns. The speak easy is gone, and everything’s too loud. “What do you think you’re doing?!”
All I remember is people saying that over and over and over, I’m suffocating on the disappointment. I remember that, and I remember Jamie Preston.
Hell would kill for the recipe for that /look/ he gave me, when I came to, when I was dripping ice water queen of fuck ups and he didn’t say anything. Just looked. And walked away.
Then Aubry was screaming. Throwing shit at me. I think I’m in her house. I think she wanted me to go away. Someone had been shot. How could I do that? I wasn’t aware it bothered her that much. It always had, she said. She, head bee party queen. Disappointed that I was who I was.
“I can’t handle you any more!”
Throw the blowdryer.
“Get out of my house!”
Throw the studded heel.
“You’re such a wh*re.”
Throw the butcher knife.
“I’m moving.”
“I’m going to New York and I need to clear some things up blah blah blah blah blah.”
I can’t hear anything. Everyone’s screaming and the world is ending and it’s nothing but static.
And in the back of my mind, where everything was quiet and held still for a moment, that look, and he was gone.
Cut to my parents kicking me out of the house. You think they would’ve done this ages ago. It’s now the onset of Fall, early September, and I spent the first few days locked in my bed with the silent treatment floating in out mansion. As soon as I stepped out. KA-BOOM! Like everything else. But it’s not like I put up a fight. Aster was the one of one my friends returning my calls, and she never had any good advice, her brain too fried.
I didn’t put up a fight or anything. They said I could take the Gremlin--which, was my car, apparently. I must’ve missed a lesson on the value of hard work. They said I could take what ever fit into boxes and a suitcase. But just get out of their sight. Mother crying. Father’s face set. Yeah, yeah, I’m a big fucking lost cause. See ya later, mom. Dad.
And I got the fuck out of there.

The first step is to recognize you have a problem.
The second is to do something about it.
In six weeks, I could be cured of my disease--HALLELUJAH PRAISE THE LORD!--and be sent on my way as a purified and decent human being of society. It was that easy.
I sighed my name and said fine, take me doctor, do all you can. It was Los Angelas. It was hot. I was hoping to bunk with some celebrities, but my insurance didn’t cover it. I had to bunk with bums. 
They broke me all right, Sunshine Springs Rehabilitation Clinic. The first three weeks? Hell on wheels. Or not. Lots of cold turkey. Lots of hot flashes and sudden icicles. Lots of me kicking and screaming. Not my finest hour. And then I started to stabilize and the only thing I missed was my read splatter lipstick, and my decent shampoo. Group sessions were the best. Fun stories and the kind of people that really make you appreciate your life. I made a few friends, and almost got back to my old megalo-self. That’s what the doctor said. Recovering addict, and megalomaniac, with potential for bipolar disorder. 
To help me, they prescribed coffee. Lots and lots of caffeine. Doc, I said, how is this any better? For one thing, it’s legal. 
The thing about caffeine crashes, is that you remember them. Sort of. It was like methadone, but tastier.
Oh, and they also gave me pills. For the bipolar stuff. 
In six weeks I was Sunshine Spring’s darling, a Miss America of rehab, and even though I looked like I’d been dragged through a paper shredder and a Monsoon, and even though my family wanted nothing to do with me and my friends practically forgot about me--Me?! How could they?!--I had never felt so fantastic.
This was a beautiful new Dawn. It was the middle of October, and my doctor asked me, “What will you do now, Miss Gingham?”
I sucked down the straw of a iced coffee riddled with cane sugar. It hit the bottom, and gurgled. Outside, the sun burned across the pavement, just beyond his office. “I think,” I started, tapping my fingers on the desk. “I think I’ll got back to school.”
They waved me off with final good byes and a sheet cake, then I hopped in my gremlin, which I’d become more fond of since everything, and have even named Myrtle, and set off away from a California sunset. 

“Hey, mom. Hey, dad.”
It wasn’t exactly a warm welcome.
“Let’s sit down and talk about where I’ve been.”
My mother, always the one to cave, blubbed tears again and started hugging me all over.
But my father didn’t trust me. 
“I’ll pay rent,” I promised. “I’ll do chores. I’ll obey your curfew. I just need my GED, and a place to stay. Let me make it up to you.”
My mother, I get her powers of persuasion from her.
When I went back up to my room, which lay in tact, and closed for two months, layer of dust powdering everything finely. My bed. My clothes. Wait, no, no clothes. They’d sold those. There was a box on the bed, which said photos.
And as I sat down to look through them, it was then I first saw myself in the mirror.
Who was that? That awful thing? That hideous excuse? That skeleton of human being. Cured? But suffering the ravaging affects of the treatments. And it wasn’t because I wasn’t pretty, it was because I saw how low I had crawled. 
I ripped up my bedclothes, and covered the mirror, and sheets over the bathroom, and over any shiny surface. But it looked terrible, like a funeral parlor, like Goodwill. One by one, I tapped up all those photos of old me to the sheets. One by one, I covered my self. And who I would never be again.

Things are slowly, getting better. I think. I got a job working at the movie theater. I wear baggy non-label clothing. I might enroll in school next week. I don’t think about any of those people, not Aubs, not Elliot, and I’m meeting new ones. School might bring back old demons, but eventually I’ll have to face my fears in the flesh.

But there is only one thing holding me below the surface. His face. Hell would kill for the recipie for that kind of hate.
And I still loved him.
name: Teegan Gingham
description: Once upon a time, Teegan was never one to pass down an opportunity to drink some alcohol or do drugs. She's a devilish hottie, but drugs have gotten the best of her. Teegan had no problem putting everything in the backseat while she makes her addictions main priority, and maybe that’s the reason that multiple rehabs failed to help her before. But when her preppy boyfriend breaks up with her, and her old friends kick her to the curb, Teegan realizes that she’ll have to clean up. But will she ever be able to fight the temptation of her old ways?
model: Georgia Jagger, with Courtney Love as her Alter Ego.
Show all items in this set…

Similar Styles

Love this look? Get more styling ideas