Hot sun beat down against my eyes, reflecting off the flamingo pink roof. The sea foam green walls suggest that the store is trying to look beachy, when in reality it looks like it had vomited all over itself. “Nail Place,” the sign says. This creepy place isn’t even worthy of the honorable title “salon.” At a salon, beautiful Asian girls make your nails look classy and natural, not trashy and alien. Inside, the waiting area has walls covered with comic book mistresses, black and white except for their red and pink fingertips. Moth eaten couches, probably picked up off the side of the road after a rat infestation ruined a family’s home, were jammed into a corner with a coffee table in the center. Magazines from months ago tell of heartbreaks and weddings, those of which have now resulted in reunions and divorce. Flickering fluorescent lights illuminate the dingy stations. This is my Kingdom, my Palace of Versailles. This is my story, my life. Trounced by acrylic nails.