Sally Khan
I is She.
Enola.
She could go days without actually speaking with anyone because the Voice inside My head would keep Us in zipang so loud at times, We couldn’t shut it down.
It sometimes upset the balances in our mind. The more tired Enola got from working her flair for the camera, the more Our Voices became. More than I thought She could manage. We began toying with the idea of calling time on the agency and finding something else for Us to do. She told Her booker that Enola was only interested in being paid up front, which in this business was a sign you were looking to quit.
Bookers have a nose for that kind of thing.
They started paying Her closer attention, telling Her how gong She looked and leading any talk of time off through a labyrinth of cozy jobs baited with beach kush. Some days We had to shut the empire of Her Mind down completely and could only do that by actually talking with a real person on set. I had to silence the Voice and tend to It long enough so she could keep Our set buddy engaged, but also, She had to stop talking long enough to do the job She had been hired to do.
Other times Her thoughts grew into a God so throbbing and euphoric that She would have to stop work and excuse Herself.
She would leave the studio feeling weak and out of control. Her minge crawling up inside all her holes. Bunging them up gibbous and suffocatingly tight.
If the crew only knew, they would probably lock Her out of the building. And Me?
Defo.
Who wouldn’t?
SallyAnne Khan has worked the cupboards for fashion magazines around the globe. She modelled once. It was one of life’s immaculate disasters. Now she lives offline, fascinated by tales of human spirit and its bedfellow, the dashed dream. She is working on a novel and is always putting just one more finishing touch to a script.
