She learnt from some website mag to use mink oil on her mothers' purses to make them as good as vintage. So, in a fit of independence and self-actualisation, she triumphantly found some fine animal fat and a piece of left over craft felt and began to rub her bags.
“Wow. The leather really feel so nice and smooth with this magic mink oil, it's so cool! I...”
And before she finished her thought, with a sudden poof, a genie popped out of the classic Chanel clutch she was rubbing and said formidably,
“I am the genie of the Chanel bag... I will grant you one wish....You have only one wish because you're a size six! If you were a size four, I'd grant you maybe, three wishes.” This was not true, the genie always granted one wish to anyone, even size fours; he just liked to make people feel bad about their bodies so that they would wish to be slimmer, and he could quickly grant that well-rehearsed charm to go back to whatever, or whoever, he was doing.
“Whoever the fuck you are, you are just a bitch to me,” said the girl, unfazed, as she flashed the genie a middle finger which was glossy with mink oil,
“Now what was I thinking... I had wanted to put it on my blog,” she whined as she rolled her eyes at the genie before she announced her recollections self-righteously, “oh yeah, I was just thinking before I was rudely interrupted... that I wish someone would rub mink oil all over my dead body when my skin's all dried and wrinkly.”
