(no subject)
I hate doing blogs like these. If you don't want to see appearance!angst a la every teenage girl that's ever existed, move along, move along, like I know you do.
(That was so I don't have to quote any other songs in italics later in the post.)
Since I was about thirteen or fourteen, I have felt physically repellent, especially to men. The only people that find me attractive, or at least tell me I'm attractive, are my mother and a smattering of female friends. I know, too, that I could have been pretty - in the eighteenth century. For those of you who know me, think about it! I've got the facial structure, the hair (they used to pad theirs with horsehair, which is what mine IS), the forehead (they used to shave them to look like MINE!) and the body (they liked soft-around-the-edges girls). I have the dialect down and the wit to keep me upright in society. I can remember manners and ethics and can be soft-spoken should I choose, and though I can't keep a rhythm straight these days, eighteenth-century dances are more a grace thing, and I can be graceful if I really, really try. I was born with straight, white teeth, and if I hadn't taken up Dr. Pepper, they'd still be that way. I would be one hot mother in the eighteenth century.
It is not the eighteenth century. I have zits. I am fat. Do not try to tell me I am not fat; I am two hundred pounds even on good days. I have a double chin. I am too pale. I look dead. I know that I look dead. I don't smile enough. I don't smile at all. My hair is hopeless. It feels like a shrub.
I cry over this on a regular basis. I am pathetic.
I just think, you know, who is ever going to want to put up with me that I, by some chance, will also want to put up with? I'm, what, a three? The Boy was probably a two or a three as well. That's my future. Pudgy, speech impedimented Photoshop nerds. And I cry over the fact that no one decent will ever want me.
I could lose weight. I can't lose weight. It doesn't work.
I don't know what to do.
I just want out sometimes. Temporarily. No suicide attempts, don't worry. But I am thinking seriously about grabbing my dad's tequila, or the Jack Daniel's, or the cognac we keep for cooking, or the fucking twelve-pack of Shiner's in the garage, and just drink it all until the world fades out for a little while. I've never been so tempted to self-mutilate, do drugs, drink, hire someone. My face hurts from my sinus infection and not crying, because I want to be less pathetic about this whole thing.
Please. Someone. I just need someone to bitch to. But as soon as someone I could open up to comes online, I won't want to talk anymore.
So, instead, I went through all the pictures of myself I could find online, and I want you to see me, so you know what I'm talking about if you don't know. And I found this one. It's me and my teacher, Amanda, from Short Fiction last summer, and half of a girl named Beth. I do this thing when I go anywhere where I look for people who weigh more or are less attractive than me. It makes me feel better. Amanda and Beth were both those kind of people.
So here I am. No edits to make my eyes or skin better. For once in my life, I can say to all of you that, if you're wondering, I am the cute one.
But that's the coward's way out, you know. I look decent next to them.
So this is me, next to Elys-from-Broadcast, who invited me to her Christmas party and who I wish I was sometimes. We're in Chicago. I'm sick from the undercooked burger I had for lunch. We're making scary faces.
This is Nicole and me. I'm going to see her this summer. We're at Duke there, I think on the last day, or maybe the one before. She's beautiful. I wish I was Nicole even more than I wish I was Elys. Elys is a little dumb sometimes.
That's my ass. {Edit: No, not that one, the one above it, with me on top.}
That's me with an amazingly dorky look on my face. That's also at Duke, by the way; we climbed that tree every day after lunch. Check out the zits and my mistmatched eyes. I can't figure out if one is lazy or if one is round and the other oval; the Kelly family, my maternal line, has a hereditary lazy eye, but I'm still not sure.
That's me, again at Duke, being a dictatorlike bitch about the t-shirts.
My enormous forearms, zits, and double chins, again with Nicole.
Meg, the one with all the straight hair; Anna, the one with all the blonde hair; and myself, with the stupid shirt.
The truest picture I've ever found of what I look like on a daily basis. You know. Desperately ill. And in a bad shirt. With jowls and not smiling.
The cat's outta the bag now.
{Edit: IT'S COMMENTLOCKED FOR A REASON. NO I DO NOT WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT. THIS IS CALLED CATHARSIS; IT GETS IT OUT OF MY SYSTEM. I HAVE TALKED ABOUT IT ONCE. by the way thank you space_cowboy. FOR THE REST OF YOU, I JUST WANTED TO PUT IT SOMEWHERE. THAT SOMEWHERE TURNED OUT TO BE HERE. I WOULD RATHER NOT DEAL WITH THE CONSEQUENCES. THANK YOU AND GOOD NIGHT.
(That was so I don't have to quote any other songs in italics later in the post.)
Since I was about thirteen or fourteen, I have felt physically repellent, especially to men. The only people that find me attractive, or at least tell me I'm attractive, are my mother and a smattering of female friends. I know, too, that I could have been pretty - in the eighteenth century. For those of you who know me, think about it! I've got the facial structure, the hair (they used to pad theirs with horsehair, which is what mine IS), the forehead (they used to shave them to look like MINE!) and the body (they liked soft-around-the-edges girls). I have the dialect down and the wit to keep me upright in society. I can remember manners and ethics and can be soft-spoken should I choose, and though I can't keep a rhythm straight these days, eighteenth-century dances are more a grace thing, and I can be graceful if I really, really try. I was born with straight, white teeth, and if I hadn't taken up Dr. Pepper, they'd still be that way. I would be one hot mother in the eighteenth century.
It is not the eighteenth century. I have zits. I am fat. Do not try to tell me I am not fat; I am two hundred pounds even on good days. I have a double chin. I am too pale. I look dead. I know that I look dead. I don't smile enough. I don't smile at all. My hair is hopeless. It feels like a shrub.
I cry over this on a regular basis. I am pathetic.
I just think, you know, who is ever going to want to put up with me that I, by some chance, will also want to put up with? I'm, what, a three? The Boy was probably a two or a three as well. That's my future. Pudgy, speech impedimented Photoshop nerds. And I cry over the fact that no one decent will ever want me.
I could lose weight. I can't lose weight. It doesn't work.
I don't know what to do.
I just want out sometimes. Temporarily. No suicide attempts, don't worry. But I am thinking seriously about grabbing my dad's tequila, or the Jack Daniel's, or the cognac we keep for cooking, or the fucking twelve-pack of Shiner's in the garage, and just drink it all until the world fades out for a little while. I've never been so tempted to self-mutilate, do drugs, drink, hire someone. My face hurts from my sinus infection and not crying, because I want to be less pathetic about this whole thing.
Please. Someone. I just need someone to bitch to. But as soon as someone I could open up to comes online, I won't want to talk anymore.
So, instead, I went through all the pictures of myself I could find online, and I want you to see me, so you know what I'm talking about if you don't know. And I found this one. It's me and my teacher, Amanda, from Short Fiction last summer, and half of a girl named Beth. I do this thing when I go anywhere where I look for people who weigh more or are less attractive than me. It makes me feel better. Amanda and Beth were both those kind of people.
So here I am. No edits to make my eyes or skin better. For once in my life, I can say to all of you that, if you're wondering, I am the cute one.
But that's the coward's way out, you know. I look decent next to them.
So this is me, next to Elys-from-Broadcast, who invited me to her Christmas party and who I wish I was sometimes. We're in Chicago. I'm sick from the undercooked burger I had for lunch. We're making scary faces.
This is Nicole and me. I'm going to see her this summer. We're at Duke there, I think on the last day, or maybe the one before. She's beautiful. I wish I was Nicole even more than I wish I was Elys. Elys is a little dumb sometimes.
That's my ass. {Edit: No, not that one, the one above it, with me on top.}
That's me with an amazingly dorky look on my face. That's also at Duke, by the way; we climbed that tree every day after lunch. Check out the zits and my mistmatched eyes. I can't figure out if one is lazy or if one is round and the other oval; the Kelly family, my maternal line, has a hereditary lazy eye, but I'm still not sure.
That's me, again at Duke, being a dictatorlike bitch about the t-shirts.
My enormous forearms, zits, and double chins, again with Nicole.
Meg, the one with all the straight hair; Anna, the one with all the blonde hair; and myself, with the stupid shirt.
The truest picture I've ever found of what I look like on a daily basis. You know. Desperately ill. And in a bad shirt. With jowls and not smiling.
The cat's outta the bag now.
{Edit: IT'S COMMENTLOCKED FOR A REASON. NO I DO NOT WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT. THIS IS CALLED CATHARSIS; IT GETS IT OUT OF MY SYSTEM. I HAVE TALKED ABOUT IT ONCE. by the way thank you space_cowboy. FOR THE REST OF YOU, I JUST WANTED TO PUT IT SOMEWHERE. THAT SOMEWHERE TURNED OUT TO BE HERE. I WOULD RATHER NOT DEAL WITH THE CONSEQUENCES. THANK YOU AND GOOD NIGHT.