What am I doing?
Every year that goes by and I don’t miss this season at all. I’m always first in line for it without really knowing it. It’s one of those weird seasons too, you know? Arbitrarily created seasons but they stick because people like it or something: Black Friday, Groundhog Day, Leif Erikson Day. Okay, not super arbitrary but you know…the sort of weird, misplaced holidays that people go, “oh” at.
That’s the exact response I have when I enter the season about you. I go, “oh” and then I spiral into you.
It’s so weird. This season comes without warning and it comes with such great intensity until I realize how fucking hopeless it is to celebrate this particular season. There’s no point. I mean, I guess there is a point, the point of feeling happy and numb at the same time. That’s melodramatic. Let me try that again.
I say that I’m not a romantic, and I’m really not outside of writing and my mind. Hmh, on second thought, maybe I am truly a romantic but love to put up a front that I’m not. HO HO HO, take that, free therapy!
However, I’m the fucked up kind of romantic. The sort of romantic that no one ever wants to confess to being, which probably explains why I automatically say that I’m not one. I’m fucked up because I love being the pitiful romantic that loves to proliferate lost causes.
Drama queen in other words. I am the biggest drama queen within my internal kingdom, and I love every heart-wrenching moment of it.
I miss everything about you. I miss that your words can instantly cheer me up and feel all sorts of weird things, and I know you also have the ability to break me apart with your words.
I’ll admit that no one has ever come close to the things you’ve said about me, and I’m sad that I can’t remember them verbatim.
The only things I do remember is how much love and attention were put into those words and the actions you provided.
I don’t think I ever learned to grow up and let go of the concept of love.
It boggles my mind that people can learn to love another human being again, and probably love even harder and better the second, third, or tenth time around. Maybe loving someone gets better with practice, but I’m sure there are a lot of us that finds more comfort and joy in searching.
Maybe the selfish explorers entertain love over and over again, not to love better and harder, but to further validate the love they couldn’t hold onto. As you can tell, I’m trying really hard to avoid using the cliche of “the one that got away” because this season never went away.
How the fuck can the one go away when they’re constantly embedded in that one part of your mind that contains sparse knowledge of arithmetic from middle school? You just don’t think about that kind of stuff anymore because you don’t need to, and you genuinely forgot until something triggered that weird, frustrating place.
I miss talking to you, man. I miss my best friend I once had and I won’t fuck up the good things we both have if it means being friends again.
Here’s to you never finding out anything about this because you’ll never run into this, and because I know you only like to do the right things. You’re too noble and good.
Miss you, bud.
After 6 months of being caught up with “academia writing” (read: 90% procrastination papers that cannot fly as being an “English major”) I come here after slowly recovering from pneumonia. I come here inspired and maybe a little happy because I can slightly push off more important things and not feel guilty for once.
I come here inspired to write about women. I love talking about women. I wonder if it’s because I simply am one or this is the only way to confidently entertain my pseudo alter lesbian ego. Either way, women are really fun to talk about and think about.
I think it’s kind of odd how closely women are inspected. They’re a specimen no different from the rats inside labs tucked away to answer the most complex of biological problems.
Yet the problems these inspected women are facing are not only biological but social, political, and ethical as well. Women are the embodiment of all things that deserve a fucking outcry or protest in this world, and it’s scary to admit the old reality that beauty will always be a determining factor.
I don’t know why women were born with the curse of being the only gender capable of being pretty – so pretty that it causes not only benevolent reactions, but extremely harmful and disgusting ones as well.
It’s saddening to me that we’re on the brink of a new cultural shift in American society at least – where beauty comes in all shapes and sizes. That’s great. It really is, and I’m not stating this new cultural shift is saddening, but I cannot find myself at ease just because Forever 21 finally decided to modernize their “Forever 21+” section. I guess I’m just bothered that even though corporations are now allowing for stretching out fabrics and plumper models, the fucking internal fight every woman has inside their mind and hearts will never be at rest.
It doesn’t matter what body size you are. It doesn’t matter what age you are. It doesn’t matter what skin color you are.
You. Are. Beautiful. And. I. Big. American. Company. Masked. By. Women. Like. You. Think. You. Are. So. Therefore. You. Must. Be.
Fuck that. Don’t capitalize on all the different women in the world embracing who they are because they’re all beautiful inside and out.
No. We’re monsters.
We will hate and destroy every little good thing and person around us; slowly or quickly, but be ensured that damage is imminent.
We hold onto the warm, fuzzy feeling we get by seeing Dove release that one commercial with the painter dude, and we might feel that spark of motivation to finally love our bodies, but we will never love who we are.
We don’t know who we are.
Maybe that’s why it’s so much easier to tear apart and dissect all the physical factors we can touch every moment we have alone, and we find it so much easier to cope with our shortcomings by the stuff everyone seems to be telling us is wrong but meant to be embraced.
What the fuck? Whatever. I guess what I’m ultimately saying is that a woman’s character seems to always fall hand in hand with her appearance.
Everyone is going to take you more seriously if you’re somewhat attractive: especially a woman.
So then maybe all this can drive a girl crazy. You know like mental fucking insane. She tries so hard to be conventionally or “edgy” attractive, but can’t quite get there. It’s just too much work that will never come up with the same result as the prettiest girl we know.
So what does that girl do? Maybe she turns butch, maybe she turns a little androgynous, maybe she goes full on hippie and grows all her body hair out. Either way, changes that are physical will always reign supreme even as an act of defiance.
What the hell happened to that personality and inner beauty shit those lingerie and bath product companies keep feeding us?
Okay. I know I’m sounding a bit too politically liberal and anti-Corporate America. I know. I know, so I’ll stop straddling onto the soft, milky hands of these feminine corporations.
Quite honestly, I’m more pissed at girls, ladies, women themselves. I’m pissed at myself too.
I don’t know why women need to resort to “omg fake tits” or “photoshopped” or whatever these Facebook/Instagram crusaders love to say about more provocatively dressed women and selfies of nice skin.
So fucking vicious about a freaking PICTURE of someone, and I kid you not, girls are way more vicious when these pictures are of their friends. They love to tear apart the pretty, skinny girl while never mentioning anything bad about that chubby or fat girl friend we all have. I kind of take that back. Women love to comment on how fat so and so got or is getting, but they say it more out of pity and observation.
They will go back to tearing apart someone who looks great in their new profile pic, and suddenly gain profound extensive knowledge of lighting, angles, and make-up. God damn, I didn’t know you were some sorcerer of Aphrodite’s regime.
Don’t get me wrong. I love bringing out stereotypical anecdotes because they’re true and prove some sort of selfish point, but I do also find it important to note that there are living and breathing girls that don’t do this. They don’t do this because they are either too nice or doing more important things in their lives and obsess over more important things: like food or sex.
But even these nice or really cool girls are going to have insecurities time to time about how they look.
I’m probably the shittiest example to say what all girls feel, but I think I can safely say that we sure as hell don’t want to be perceived as ugly.
We love admitting how gross or fucked up we are, but it’s nice to know we’re found conventionally attractive for some physical trait. But that shit is just nice on a Tuesday or Sunday where we feel kind of insecure for some odd-ass reason.
Women like to be taken seriously time to time. Aretha Franklin wasn’t preachin’ to no empty choir when she was belting out that r-e-s-p-e-c-t. Women constantly find this obsessive need to be validated and right all the time, so maybe that’s why it’s a good thing they don’t have penises. Can you imagine all the comparing and lying? We would take that shit to an unthinkable level. Damn. What an epiphany.
Okay. Damn you, penis. Getting me off track.
That really put me off track much longer than I expected and probably a cue that I exhausted women and beauty a lot more than I intended to. It wasn’t meant to be so typical of a topic, but I kind of forget this isn’t some assignment. Ha ha ha ha.
Women, not all of you are going to be the prettiest, sexiest, thinnest, youngest looking girl alive. You’re not all going to have that bitchin’ body with great assets (both top and bottom). Some of us just have it in our destiny to be kind of fat and ugly with a bunch of stretchmarks or loose skin. Does this mean you’re not conventionally attractive? Yeah, that’s exactly what it means.
But I’m doing that thing where I insert the key adjective: conventionally to indicate that’s what old society schmiety secretly agrees upon. It’s a cop-out just like how words like “curvy” and “full-figured” are, but it’s the world we live in and we really are the ones responsible for what is and isn’t accepted at the time. It doesn’t matter if we chose and agree to that responsibility ourselves, we just sort of roll with it and try to challenge and change it at least within our own paradigm if it really bothers us.
I want to be done with obsessing over this whole body acceptance thing. I’m probably never going to love the way my body looks until I lose 50-60 pounds and have perkier everything. I sound like your typical 30-40 year old woman when I said that, but no, I’m only at the ripe and beautiful age of 21. I would of course want to lose all that weight for health reasons, but I’m not going to sit here and lie that it’s only to be healthy and whatnot. Shit, son, I ain’t frontin’.
I’m vain too. I think make-up (foundation and eye-liner specifically) is a god-send. I love clothes that look pretty or interesting to create the disguise that I can be those two things for a moment. I love it all.
But I get tired of having to do all that to compensate for an insecurity that will never be fulfilled.
This whole self-worth and actualization thing that old wrinkly people/East Asian religions/Abraham Maslow preaches is pretty damn true. Maybe other women determine their entire being and pride in their appearances, and maybe some determine their worth with love, family, friends, career, money, degrees, or Nobel prizes.
And that’s all perfectly okay. Don’t be that bitch that feeds into the hype of whatever you find self-empowering to look crazy about. Just fucking focus on your own goals and duties, and please build up all the women around you by saying whatever is true and good about them. They will know if you’re bullshitting them, so don’t say they look great when they don’t. Only we know how freaking insane and terrible we are, but we also have the capability and good intention to praise what we love.
Let’s just keep it the real kind of real, women.
Things could be pretty terrible, and they probably are.
But that terrible moment can be easily overturned just by jammin’ out to some good music or looking at pictures of cats; or turtles.
It always is.
BECAUSE YOU’RE ALIVE, MOTHERFUCKER! :)
Times are tough.
Tough not because of personal matters. Tough because I really suck at managing time.
Oh, time. Time, time, time. You’re a bitch.
But I love you. I love you, but I got to get to know you better.
blerghhhhhhh. OK. Back to work.
I feel like I get so caught up in looking toward the future and start panicking about “all the things I need to get accomplished”.
I think it’s now dawning on me that I do this because I’m actually really scared about the future.
Huh, who would have known?
So glaringly obvious but not for someone engrossed with justification over justification in a spiraling helplessness that all people must do that too right?
Take me back to the present, crazy mind.
Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa I’m so lucky I’m not single at this point of my life.
All I want to do is keep eating Thai curry pizza while marathoning through Regular Show.
Yeah…sorry I just don’t like getting rudely interrupted while having a self loathing period justified by “it’s winter break and da weekend so f u”.
K THX BACK TO EATING. NOM NOM NOM