LAST TIME SHE WAS HERE , dara strutted across the stage in five inch heels with pupils the size of tennis balls as she sweat out the breakfast of champions : vodka and coke. it was rare to find the girl sober those days , but the wine glass cradled between her manicured fingers raises no indication of any change since. true to old times, people flock to her side ( as if she's a fucking variation of fat buddha who gives good fortune to those who kiss at her feet ). leeches.
the years and the meds and all the brain cells lost to alcohol poisoning dull her memory but do little to dull her honesty — " god ! i almost wish i wasn't so busy these days. could have given the decor a much needed facelift before the reunion. "
dara céline somsri. thirty-six. the devil. socialite, NFP committee member.
full name: dara céline somsri nickname: dee, dar, little star age: thirty six gender + pronouns: cisfemale + she/her sexuality: assumed heterosexual, bisexual marital status: married creed: previously non-practicing buddhist but has had a change of mind due to a recent trip to bali
occupation: not-for-profit committee member for a number of charities that are committed to ending world hunger, supporting young asian-americans, and is currently attempting to become a patron of the arts in hopes of getting a coveted invitation to the MET's committee hobbies: a cheeky little glass of wine, yoga, meditation, tennis, shopping, matching with her kids
mother + father: kannicka and pravat somsri siblings: nill significant other: husband wc children: juliette davika somsri-husband, potentially more! enemies: olive myers used for your own benefit: aiden coleman, the hanged man used to party with: the hermit disliked: cedro cruz, the tower
allergies: prawns physical wellness: nearly broke her ankle in high school playing tennis mental wellness: medicated bipolar, medicated depression treatments: six years of on-and-off rehab, consistent therapy, medicated BPD and depression drug + alcohol use: regular drinker, stress smoker. previously a heavy user of hard drugs but has since quit.
character inspo: georgia sparks (gossip girl), lily (black swan), carla rosón caleruega (elite), sarah highland’s character (SVU), chloé bourgeois (miraculous ladybug), heather chandler (heathers)
headcannons:
tennis is a major part of her life. she used to have private lessons with her bpuu where they’d both learn together at the country club. she did a short stint in junior doubles before leaving her partner for singles. she ranked within california, but played casually at angelwoods.
this was a pretty infamous rumour while they were in school, but it’s said that dara threw a tennis racket at olive’s face in a fit of rage. don’t know why it’s a rumour when the blood is browned on the sidewalk next to the courts to this day.
decided to get into philanthropy because other rich people were doing it. she has no attachment to helping the homeless, nor does she care to help young asian-americans but it certainly looks good.
she’s not a bad mother, but she enjoys children like one enjoys pets. it’s certainly fun dressing them up!
wanted connections:
husband <3 cheating, toxic, happy, committed. it’s very open.
former junior doubles partner. would have been based in california in their youth.
gold digger. used her for money and she knew it.
business partner. perhaps you have interest in her family’s rice exports. perhaps you want her to invest in your company. perhaps you’re interested in her philanthropy.
suspicious. you don’t buy it. no way that dara has turned over a new leaf.
‘bread is bad for you’ ‘rice is bad for you’ sorry im not subscribing to the idea that staple grains that have been integral to cultures for centuries are evil. i love you carbs
dara céline somsri. thirty-six. the devil. socialite, NFP committee member.
on silver spoons and trying to pass along the little love you inherited, to be better than you were but stumble on the dirt swept under the rug, ignoring the guilt gnawing in your stomach as you spit on the memory of a dead girl, begging to buddha that your daughter never knows the life you did.
content warning: substance abuse, addiction, parental neglect, mentions of family death.
NEW YORK, 2023.
sometimes, it takes millions of dollars to find yourself.
here is life after academia:
after all but flunking out of a miserable second year at UCLA, the hail mary attempt for a masters ended in a dazzling fizzle of sparks as she wrapped her cherry red porsche around a lamp pole. her parents lowered their expectations. deciding that school didn’t teach her how to appreciate her privilege — rehab it was. the first attempt, at least.
the next six years were a whiplash of benders and rehabs. while floating in and out of sobriety and getting treatment for what mama referred to as “migraines”, dara found out she was pregnant. with something to be sober for beyond herself, she decided to get clean. ish.
life became a whirlwind. pregnant. then married. then a mother. then employed?
but maybe employed isn't the right word. because committee work doesn't quite feel like a job. it’s parties and dinner and guilting prospectives to buy into whatever charity needs it more that month — all so other rich people like her can participate in public altruism. thankfully she knows a lot of rich people. what's a better place to network than a four year stint in the glitziest rehab facility in LA?
who would have thought that miss dara somsri, angelwood's devil, would being doing charity work these days?
it’s got a nice ring to it.
ANGELWOODS, 2008.
a girl can be many things. but dara is simply a disappointment.
despite her dazzling youth and brilliant charm, she lacked the same ambition as her mama or phaw or bpuu. the sharp mind that they gifted to her was wasted in her pursuit of happiness, seemingly achievable solely through the alps in club bathrooms. barely weeks out of high school and they debated behavioural correction programs before settling on college. she was dragged to the plane by her hair, kicking and screaming half-way through the country before being heavily sedated. her cries did nothing for her but cement the somsri’s decision. it was the right choice to isolate her from those good-for-nothing kids who taught her american sins in the first place.
despite the unwanted move, she could always make the best of a bad situation. she was dancing on tables in senior dorms less than twelve hours after touching down. obviously, it was nothing to an LA party but angelwoods made a heroic attempt; thus holding her hand in her downward spiral.
she became a dreadful cunt during the days, constantly irritated due to the never-ending hungover and careless because of the fried circuit board in her head. whatever brilliance she might’ve had was used up when she came up with the brilliant idea to hire people to do her homework.
she was something else in the night.
that was when she came alive, brought to life through ritual — with a drink and a drug and a good pregame CD. every nasty thing she said through the day was forgiven. whatever she’d done forgotten. it certainly helped that she never minded sharing her supply — inviting whoever happened to be in the room with her to do a line with her.
everyone loved her.
almost everyone.
who fucking cared about olive anyway? she's dead.
some people said that the rivalry stemmed from jealousy. olive’s out of envy of everything that dara had and she did not, dara’s from olive’s glowing reputation of which she did not. other people said that olive’s loving family reminded dara of her absentee parents — because even the carte blanche on daddy’s credit card couldn’t buy a family that gave a shit.
truthfully, it was much pettier than that. olive humiliated her. since she was such a fucking know-it-all, dara figured she would gotten the point from the snide remarks, lack of invites out, and the fact she made a point to make out with all of her exes. admittedly, it was a little heavy-handed when dara would knock into her in passing. and the tennis racquet incident was overkill, but it was an accident. probably.
this is a mean girl grown up.
BEL AIR, 1987.
bpuu’s phaw was a rice farmer. when he was a child he would help cut stalks in the fields in his oversized galoshes. the hand-me-downs would one day fit better on him, and became too tight much sooner than he expected. it was difficult to believe this impoverished thailand that bpuu painted as his humble origins — especially as they sat their glossy bel air mansion, held in the safety of the gated community.
he always wanted to be an american. well, perhaps it was better to say he wanted to be rich. and americans were rich. really fucking rich.
maybe that's why he loved his little star as much as he did. she had the great fortune to be born as both. she was proof that his dream to get his family out of the rice fields was fully realized. it was a shame she did so little with the opportunity but he didn't live long enough to see her disappoint him.
now they all loved her, don’t be mistaken. as busy as they were, her family loved her all the same. it was simply different.
being with her bpuu was different from her parents. bpuu showered her endlessly with love, and attention, and gifts. she was lucky if she saw her parents more than once a week. they were preoccupied with the company. the AMEX bill had to come from somewhere. mama was the reason they went international, and phaw probably had something to do with it as well. even if not directly, as the chairman, all accomplishments by the company were his to claim anyway.
she gets it from him — the belief that the world is hers. after all, they did it all for her. for the dream that her life would be easier than theirs.
and it is.
that money is hers too. this is her reparations for their neglect in her childhood, payment for staying quiet and keeping herself entertained while they fought tooth and nail to monopolize thailand’s rice exports. that money is for every birthday she spent alone and every dinner they left to take a call.
none of them understood her loneliness. bpuu had the love of his poor parents. mama was an independent woman from the start. and phaw was cradled with a tiger’s expectations.
they argued she was lucky for her freedom.
but that freedom was nothing more than a pretty name for an endless free fall. all she had to catch her was her rage. a red anger, clinging to her skin like an armour made of molten lava. burning hot and fast and leaving behind not even bone.
she was empty. gorged so heavily on herself yet hollow inside.
dara somsri wanted for nothing. which, in many ways, was what her family always hoped for.
2087
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