It’s hot out, so Cass heads to Perth’s most iconic amateur modelling competition: Cottesloe Beach. En route, she stops off at the Boatshed to stock up on the most important supply: a large bottle of designer water. Her go-to source of hydration ever since her mother stormed out of The Blue Duck for the mere suggestion that tap water was on offer.
Cass and Brit pick a spot and get to work on the most important order of the day. The obligatory #hotdogorlegs beach selfie to not only show off her pre-beach spray tan but also alert the working class bunyips that she had a day off while they slaved for annual leave.
“Cottesloe Beach get in me! #mybodyisready #beachdays #legs11 #blessed#perthisok #sharks #fromwhereyoudratherbe #beach #cottesloe #beachlyfe#voss #zimmerman #areyoujelly #beachlivesmatter”
As she finds a good spot, she is hit by the unmistakable waft of over-applied cologne and reget. It’s a trust funded fuccboi that she’d been ghosting ever since he lost his boat licence. She hits the sand and keeps her head down like it was the Normandy shore.
She hears his conversation about cryptocurrency fade into the distance. Finally, the coast is clear, so it’s time to flaunt her banging body like the sand was her personal runway. Her #megsdelish rig has been forged from a simple equation: nutrients out, enhancements in – the Western Suburb’s way.
She begins playfully frolicking, bending over naughtily and flicking her hair back like she was in a Cuntene Pro V commercial. Basically doing anything without risking getting her make-up or hair wet. Work it girl.
She returns from her catwalk, and turns to Brit, “Oh EM GEE, did you see all those creepy losers having a look, like um I feel so violated”. She doesn’t. She feels like she’s living out her fantasy of signing up to Chadwicks, so she only has to spend daddy’s money on European holidays.
Turns out, baking in the sun while refusing to swim can get hotter than the hand friction of a junky’s 6-hour methwank. It’s time to return to her Mini Cooper and be seen driving up and down Marine Parade.
She looks at her windscreen. There is a ticket. Two hundred damn dollars for parking in a no standing zone. She checks her Instagram DMs to check up on whether MAC has responded to her request to backpay her for all her unsolicited ambassadorship. Funnily enough, no.
She is torn. Ring daddy or head to the Cott Hotel for an Aperol Spritz and a quick gold dig. Fark it, she makes like an Old El Paso commercial and does both.
Documenting the Human Zoo is thirsty work, so if you enjoyed what you read how about buying Belle a beer, ay?