consider this
Sunday and I’m yet sick, but I have clean laundry and a newly straightened room and cold medicine. I have books for the reading and a pair of cats that the roommates are taking care of. The cat with Elizabeth Taylor eyes pads across my bed, crying out for me. His name is Eli. He is, as my friend Eleanor says, “an eccentric genius.” The earth Buddha stands at the window, waiting. His eyes are dark and glittery, his skin cold. Eli will coil around me as I read a book and try not to cough too hard. My lungs hurt from the air, from whatever it is that’s attacking me.
It’s my hope that if I keep eating bananas and drinking plenty of fluids (and drinking three packets of Emer’gen-C), I’ll get better. I cannot afford to pay a doctor’s bill or get prescriptions. And O, hell no, don’t even turn me loose about the yeast infection that comes from the rest (Sorry, folks, for this information, but if you’re ever going to have girlfriends or wives, this is how it is). That’s right. I certainly cannot afford to take the time off.
I know that’s partial bullshit. If I really wanted to, I could take time off and buy trinkets less. In the last month alone, I’ve scored a Pucci scarf, Betsey Johnson belt, and other rock star accessories. I’m moving into a stage of wanting my body to be exquisite art, an extension of my creative, crazy mind. I love how well made items make me feel: art from other artists to last a lifetime.
One day, I won’t be poor and wanting so much. I’ll have the means to be a different person every day with every outfit. Materialism? No. I’d trade my talents for these accoutrements were it possible. I do this sometimes. Escapism? In the same way a storybook with elaborate pictures is.
It’s also a way of accepting my woman-body instead of buying clothes in hopes of one day being 110 pounds and unhappy again. A girl of six feet should never be that weight. If she is, something is terribly wrong. I remember when my body started curving instead of spreading straight, and I purchased all these ridiculous outfits in my original small size. I squeezed into pants that made my ass monstrous, all the while satisfied that I fit into this mythological small size. Say hello to my wump-a-wump-wump. No, no, no.
Now, I know better, and I get far more compliments on my style than ever before. It’s that I am wearing my clothes and skin like I belong in them. I am carrying myself like the earth and gravity are my friends. And they are. Earth and gravity are constantly kissing me, and that’s good, because I am the type of girl who should be kissed and often. It’s one of the things I was made to do.
Jewelynx
It’s my hope that if I keep eating bananas and drinking plenty of fluids (and drinking three packets of Emer’gen-C), I’ll get better. I cannot afford to pay a doctor’s bill or get prescriptions. And O, hell no, don’t even turn me loose about the yeast infection that comes from the rest (Sorry, folks, for this information, but if you’re ever going to have girlfriends or wives, this is how it is). That’s right. I certainly cannot afford to take the time off.
I know that’s partial bullshit. If I really wanted to, I could take time off and buy trinkets less. In the last month alone, I’ve scored a Pucci scarf, Betsey Johnson belt, and other rock star accessories. I’m moving into a stage of wanting my body to be exquisite art, an extension of my creative, crazy mind. I love how well made items make me feel: art from other artists to last a lifetime.
One day, I won’t be poor and wanting so much. I’ll have the means to be a different person every day with every outfit. Materialism? No. I’d trade my talents for these accoutrements were it possible. I do this sometimes. Escapism? In the same way a storybook with elaborate pictures is.
It’s also a way of accepting my woman-body instead of buying clothes in hopes of one day being 110 pounds and unhappy again. A girl of six feet should never be that weight. If she is, something is terribly wrong. I remember when my body started curving instead of spreading straight, and I purchased all these ridiculous outfits in my original small size. I squeezed into pants that made my ass monstrous, all the while satisfied that I fit into this mythological small size. Say hello to my wump-a-wump-wump. No, no, no.
Now, I know better, and I get far more compliments on my style than ever before. It’s that I am wearing my clothes and skin like I belong in them. I am carrying myself like the earth and gravity are my friends. And they are. Earth and gravity are constantly kissing me, and that’s good, because I am the type of girl who should be kissed and often. It’s one of the things I was made to do.
Jewelynx