Oceana gives an exaggerated eyeroll, the strobe lights from the dance floor catching the rhinestones she's placed under her eyes to look like teardrops, but cringes and squawks when Jolie flicks her ear.
"Ow, bitch, that fucking hurt," she whines. "You act like your nose isn't eight inches up everyone's ass hounding for gossip." In lieu of licking her wounds, she nurses at her glass of vodka. "Can it be? Does Très Jolie finally look in the mirror every morning and whisper 'That boy is a bottom'?"
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"Ow, bitch, that fucking hurt," she whines. "You act like your nose isn't eight inches up everyone's ass hounding for gossip." In lieu of licking her wounds, she nurses at her glass of vodka. "Can it be? Does Très Jolie finally look in the mirror every morning and whisper 'That boy is a bottom'?"