Sometimes I think my ego is the only thing keeping me attractive.
It’s like by acting like a hot person, people just go along with it… presume it’s true. But without makeup and nice flattering clothes, I look like complete shit. Real good looking people look good all the time. I need some production, even if it’s only a bit of eyeliner and an arrogant expression on my face. But it’s so tiring. Since making myself single, I’ve been tiring myself out constantly keeping my “I’m being watched” face on. Whenever I’m stressed, I do my stressed hot girl face. When I’m tired, I massage my temples in what I think is a cute manner. When I’m angry, I try to be Amazonian, poised, and angry in a “don’t step on this hot piece of ass” kind of way. When I’m hanging skirts up at work, where the ignorant shits left them pathetically trailing on the floor… I hang them up with this retarded expression that’s almost pious… like Cinderella, looking gorgeous all the time as she sweeps up after the ugly sisters, just in case a prince looks in the window. It seems to work, anyway, until I meet up with a real true hottie friend and then my whole mirage crumbles into nothing. Oh man sometimes I think, I’m not even really that much into looks when it comes down to it. I’ve gone crazy for more “meh” guys than heartthrobs, so why bother with all this theatre? Why? I don’t really honestly want to be with someone very good looking. I don’t. I’d be too paranoid and jealous. I don’t even want to BE WITH anyone, just… some flirtation and a bit of a fumble around on my slutty black sheets would be nice. Why am I still bothering with this ridiculous dressing up and wearing makeup EVERY DAY??
Because I don’t want to attract a man with my personality, which is something I work at and chose for myself to some extent… I want to draw men to me because of my appearance, an aspect of me that means fucking nothing further than my genes and what makeup I’m wearing, and it pisses me off considerably that I value a compliment to my looks more than to my personality. If someone calls me a bitch I’m like, yeah fuck you too, but if someone calls me fat or ugly or just implies I am either, I will drag that deep down inside and weep inwardly for months, nay, ever. In fact I’ve been called ugly once I think, and that was at a festival by a group of guys sitting in lawn chairs facing the path who were shouting it at every girl who walked past, for their own jocular entertainment. And I knew they were shouting it at everybody, and I still can’t remember back to it without coming at it squinting, wincing…from around the corner… like I was fucking raped or something.
Why such a fucking shallow hypocrite? Why? I blame barbies and social conditioning and society and yeah I’d probably be just as vain and ridiculous if I were a man. I know I would be.
But it’s weird. I spend so much time and energy trying to appeal to some imagined higher echelon of looks, and then when a real gorgeous specimen is interested, I dismiss him as being “too pretty for me.” (New barman in the bar next door to my shop- hot but too pretty. Big flirty smiles today, and I was like.. no he’s too hot for me) It’s like I want to attract ALL the men, but then get with someone whose league I am out of, so that then I’ll have the security of being better looking than all his exes and all my potential rivals. Oh my god that’s it isn’t it. It’s just some bullshit insecurity-vanity thing. Ugh. I wish the part of me that knows I’m mediocre would kick the ass of the part of me that kind of holds out hope that some day Karl Lagerfield will come up to me on the street with a business card and be all “you’re the next top model, just lose like two pounds”
I spend a lot of money on keeping up the charade of being one of the good looking ones. In my arena, like my bus route to work and the area around my bars I frequent, I am the queen bee. I really am, because the only other women on the circuit are in non-attention grabbing work clothes, saving the sort of outfits I wear every day for the weekends (when they will destroy me with their brushes AND straightened hair and matching shoes and classiness). It makes me comfy and secure during the week, because all the men who pass me by are seriously checking me out. Ok some of them are homeless, crazy, gypsies, ugly, but the point is I get that lovely feeling I used to get when I was fifteen and the only girl in a group of teenage guys and I used to tell them what girls really thought and how to fuck with teenaged girls heads (I’m a dick) and I felt on top of the world, and then I used to kiss them all but when I went to rummage for some sausage they would freak out because I was way too worldly and slutty for their innocent ways and eventually we stopped being friends. But then you take me out of my little pond and I am no longer a majestic beautiful Koi fish, I am a fucking ridiculous Koi fish thinking it’s majestic when all around are really awesome glow in the dark fish and sharks and no one pays attention to me any more. So I should live in a small town (but there’s always at least one really hot, exotic looking girl who I can’t compete with)…so no….
I’m afraid to just accept shit how it is, I can’t take being treated like a supermodel some of the time and like a supermodel’s high school picture the rest of the time. I can’t. It’s horrible. It’s like by treating me like a serious hottie, really gross men are making me act more egotistical the rest of the time and setting me up to fall on my face when I’m around really good looking men.
Ahhhrghghh these are the kind of inner turmoils middle class people who have momentarily forgotten about messy divorces n shit and have good health, invent for themselves whenever there’s no drama.
Incidentally, I just realised I’m insanely lonely. I mean I knew it, but I just realised how abnormal this is.
I know people who are lonely, I know of people who are lonely. But everyone has fucking FRIENDS.
I have friends but they live far away and never get in touch with me.
And yes it has crossed my mind that maybe they don’t actually like me very much, but they definitely do because every now and then they do something really sweet like have their birthday present be flights to come see me for just one night and fly back home the next day or write me a real letter on paper or give me an awesome handmade present full of cut out pictures of penises. Or make a book for me with all photos of us and witty captions. And that’s just like, definitely not some shit you would do if you didn’t like the person. So I know they like me. Oh man how low do you have to get when you’re questioning maybe if the only friends you have really don’t like you. But yeah. Anyway they never get in touch because they are shit at getting in touch with people, but dude… I’m so lonely. I have no one apart from my family here. And my sisters are too young to unload all the mess and shit onto… in fact although I love spending time with them, I have to actively cultivate this image of me being way less depressed and lonely than I really am. I really just want to cry. Yes I was drinking wine this evening. Red fucking wine. But fuck, I really can’t stand this for so much longer. And I’m stuck here until at least Christmas because of divorce messiness plus having no fucking money in the world. Oh man why did I buy those dresses the day before yesterday? Why?
Except one of them really really suits me.
Today I rode my bike to the metro and this van full of burly tradesmen stopped at the traffic lights and started beeping at me and yelling “Give me a ride!” and “I wish I was that bike!” And I was like, ugh! But secretly felt validated as a woman. The dress rocks.
But no one lives three years in a horrible country that doesn’t even have a separate word for neice and granddaughter (what the fuck? You just say nipote, it means either!) or towel!
I can’t respect a culture that hasn’t got a word for towel.
You have to say either “hand drier” for small towel, or “shower/bath cloth” for big towel or “beach cloth” for massive towel. That irks me considerably. Really. My anarchist streak is irked by the fact that I can’t just buy a towel without its use being designated beforehand. I like beach towels because they are big, but I have to call it a fucking beach towel. Angry! Angry it makes me. And as a huge Douglas Adams fan, I can’t be sympathetic to Italians when they can’t even call a towel a towel, let alone know where their towels are…
I wonder what the translation for towel is in the hitch hiker’s guide… Because in those brilliant books I love so very much, a towel is good for many fucking purposes. So having one perscribed use for a different size of towel… man, you can’t get better than “irks” as a descriptor for how it makes me feel.
Ok the wine is making me a little queasy. I did wake up feeling pretty good today, but it was Sunday so I worked all day with a feeling that if I have to work Sundays while these layabout cunts go shopping, I will play whatever music I feel like. So I played Paul Weller and Neil Young and Joni Mitchell and a little Jeff Buckley (this song… can’t make the words relevant to me as much as I try, but still love the song)
And that has to have had some depressing effect on my psyche… so hence the solitary pity party of this evening. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. But you know the drill, it’s my blog and I’ll cry if I want to.
Peace out brosefs and brosephinas.