Tabassum
TABASSUM, MY GUBBERTUSHED best friend, analyzed her profile in my bedroom mirror. No matter the shade of lip gel she applied, her facial silhouette remained atypical.
Without warning, that gal pal threw Beautiful and Beastly Makeup at me.
“Stupid vendors,” she yelled, before snatching the magazine back and tearing it to bits. “They’re just a bunch of multifarious institutions for structured chaos. Our misery feeds their profits.”
“Yup,” I answered. I was sitting cross-legged on my bed trying to figure out an antiderivative for the homework that Tabassum and I had been assigned by our calculus teacher. Mr. Norton hated it when I called the process of moving backward from a derivative of a function to a function “solving the antiderivative,” but I continue to do so, anyway, sinc
