Dog gamn it, I can’t stop eating. And I just accepted (stupidly, not thinking about the money I’d be losing out on by not working all weekend) an invitation to visit a friend by the sea. The sea! Yay! Beach…
Shit, my holiday drinking and eating antics have caught up on me and I’m back at plump levels of belly, not quite as bad as before but… not beach friendly. I’m also coming into my fat week of the month, so that doesn’t help either. Stupid one good week per month side of being a woman. It’s not fair, there is honestly only one good week in every month. I call it the skinny week (imaginatively) and then the other weeks are: fat week (before period arrives) period week, and the not so fat week that still sucks because I’m stressing about the timing of skinny week, and whether or not skinny week will even come this time, or if I really am just gaining weight at the rate technology gets old… And repeat. No.
Also, my hairs have grown back to the point where they are too short and sparse to get waxed, but too visible to not do anything about. Looks like I’ll have to undo all my good work and shave or something. Dannng…
AND whenever I go to the beach all confident, packing my nice clothes I bought with the mental excuse of that would look so pretty while I’m lounging by the side of an aquaintance’s nice hotel pool and I’ll look like I also stay in a hotel and not in someone’s parents’ camper van, and then I’ll meet people in a better economic class than me and then I’ll probably get lots of free things because “free to those who can afford it, very expensive to those who can’t.” Withnail and I quote there for you, because it’s probably my favorite film of all time. And I’ll feel so self-contained with my three days of clothes in a massive suitcase with wheels that don’t quite do it like they used to, until I arrive at the blinding sun and sand and sea and tanned people everywhere, and what? How are they so tanned? They just lie there and take the sun like they’re its peers, while I look at my own skin and it looks blue in the unforgiving cancerous light. And I’ll put white, thick, nostalgic factor 50 on all over while small brown children stare at me like I’m a lady with a moustache, or a little person, or something that will haunt their dreams and if I’m lucky and they are polite children, I won’t hear their terrified questions to mummy about WHY? WHY that girl has the pigmentation of raw prawns? (maybe not in those words precisely. I don’t know I’m not a children person)
And then I take lots of photos and can’t look at them properly on the beach because of the blinding light, and then I get home after a few days strutting around town in summer dresses looking so fucking German or British tourist that I feel naked in my transparency, and I load the photos onto my hard drive and wait patiently and then OH FUCK ME SIDEWAYS WITH A BICYCLE PUMP, I look revolting. That’s my face? That’s the face people saw as I interacted with them? Holy shit I look like an ugly person. This can’t be right. There are two possibilities here, and neither are comforting.
1. I am an ugly person with a huge deluded ego. This thought is unbearable. It can’t be… Oh fuck it really could be. Maybe people are just humouring me as I act like an attractive person and maybe men just don’t give a shit what the head on top of the vagina looks like.
2. I am a reasonably attractive person, somewhere in the middle, better looking than Sarah Jessica Parker but not as hot as… any other woman on tv, and what happened was I looked really fucking shit at that time, and bad camera angles and stuff. People I met probably thought I was ugly but I normally am better looking. But people I met, whenever I spoke to them, were thinking the patronising thoughts I think when I’m talking to someone I deem ugly. I remember there was this fucking ratfaced girl in school with me and she was a bitch too or maybe I’d be a bit kinder here, and she always told me these stories about these “drop dead gorgeous male models” who would be asking for her number and stuff and I had to go alone with the friend charade (I have no idea why we were friends, she didn’t like me much either) and be like “ohh maybe he’ll call tomorrow,” or “yeah you go girl” or whatever, while all the time I was smirking inside and being like “dude, either she’s lying, or she has no taste. I don’t want to see what she thinks is drop dead gorgeous, if it’s asking her out…”
And yet again, you get a flash of how really not a nice person I am. But it’s true, people. I bet you’re all arrogant dicks too, just like me.
Anyway. I had to reread that to remember what the fuck I was talking about in the first place, because my body was flooded with horrible high school memories and rage against the people I somehow wound up being friends with on my quest for people to appreciate and tollerate me and be entertaining without me ruining it by sleeping with them. A long and winding road, lots of sexy destructive pit stops.
Right I’m angry-nostalgic now so laters, I’m off for a quick facebook stalk of my old classmates and then bed time for me, long day tomorrow… and the next day, and the next, in a cyclical fashion, trundling towards death like every other unique human before me. RIGHT ON