SEX IS EVIL AND I AM... UNAPPEALING
JUST GIVE ME SOMETHING TO BREAK!!!
Stupid DNA.
Day 0: I say to myself, "Self, you're lucky you don't care about guys 'cuz if you did you wouldn't get any good ones."
Day 1: I realize I have started to care. It's happened slowly, but it's happened and I can repress it for a couple days, then it comes back. Freakin' hormones.
Day 2: I feel blood pounding in my ears just like in the books (scout's honor!) when I dream about smooching somebody who looks sort of like him. In my defence I have some of his music and he's very talented.
Day 3: I weep like a wussy girl upon realizing I could live right next to him, or somebody like him, and it wouldn't matter because -I'm finally admitting what I've known since I was 12 -I AM NOT PRETTY. AND IT HURTS. I'd MUCH rather have the short-term pain from another screwdriver accident at work.
Today I learned Gustav Mahler proposed to his special friend by writing her a symphony. She had good taste and a brain and said yes. That's not to say I'm jealous of her and plan on traveling back in time to do something to them, but part of me -nah, all of me! wishes I was pretty enough to look forward to somebody thinking enough of me to create something just for me. If I'm stuck looking like this, the best I can hope for is some asshole in badly-fitting pants chanting words to a horrible "song." And I would shut him up, because I still have some pride and I've got a list of what I want and what I won't stand for. (And I'm no hypocrite, I'm not going on dates until I can pay for some super-nice things.) I would rather stick to my original plan and live and die with my cats. But first, eighty years of self-hatred and jealousy! Yaaay!
And I know jealousy is wrong... but there's no switch I can just flip. All I can do is give some excuse and walk away from any attractive gal (who might've been my gal pal had things been different) before I do or say something uncalled-for. I can't go adventuring overseas like this, I want to be cheerful and confident, not the person trying to hide in the corner of the Brandenburg Gate photo. And there's no way I'm shelling out all that money for a passport photo that I'll want to burn.
Yes, yes, I know there are people in the world with more problems than I've got. I want to help them. I'm not completely cold-hearted. But I want to be happy too, and that's hard when I get up every morning and have the urge to jump out of my body, tear it apart and put it back together in a way that would make me want to try makeup and shinies again. (I have given the whore-paint a try before and discovered it's no Photoshop. It made things worse. Lousy sensitive skin.) I don't even look in mirrors any more when I can help it.
A breakdown of how dear, sweet old Mother Nature screwed me good:
Hair -unappealing black/brown combo (I've never done anything to make it like this, and I wanna be a redhead but combined with my relaxer, stripping the dark color and then adding the red might make me lose it all. FUN)
Eyes -same color, somehow spaced to make me look like I was born yesterday and would love to purchase your swampland, mister (I'M NOT STUPID, I AM MANY THINGS BUT NEVER STUPID)
Face -TOO DAMN WIDE (exercise doesn't help and that really burns me up, and please don't bring up Angelina Jolie because I respect her as an actress and humanitarian but I'd much rather look like Tyra Banks. THERE, I SAID IT)
Voice -TOO DAMN LOW (I like music, but can't sing along)
Combine this with a line beside my nose I'm far too young to have, too many third-grade chicken pox scars and more moles than Brian Jacques could work with in ten lifetimes, and you can understand why I don't like being photographed outside of cosplay. That's also why I usually cosplay male/androgynous/gijinka characters because I feel I have failed physically as a woman. Although with the way my brain works I guess I get a C minus in chick-like thinking too. I like my brain though, it's a part of me that I'm actually proud of. Still, you can't kiss brainpower, you can't put your arms around wit, and to learn how bright someone is you have to decide they're worth investing the time and effort to learn about. And what helps you make that decision?
(I also have some... torso-related issues, but these mostly stem from the Donut Debacle of '02 and the Great Brownie Experiment of '05, and me having taken responsibility for them means I'm not upset about them. Plus they've been shrinking.)
I managed to get an appointment to speak to a plastic surgeon whose office I didn't have to drive 50 miles to reach. HE WON'T DO ANYTHING TO ME. I'm old enough! Honest! (I've read sometimes you have to wait until your life is half-over and anybody you might've wanted has already been taken and you've begun to fall apart. This will not be my path. I will find a better way than thirty years of self-hatred and jealousy.)
I don't think counseling will help. At the worst he'll take my money and be all "Get over it" without telling me how, and at the best he'll take my money and be all "You're beautiful" without telling me how. I can get that for free.
My mother comes from good church-going God-fearing simple country folk and for as long as I can remember has impressed into me knowledge of the Man Upstairs. I have written down the changes I need want to see done, and if He can restore life to some dried-up bones it'll be no problem for Him to re-arrange a few living ones. I see nothing wrong with asking for something that'll help me feel better about myself and, by extension, others.
I'M GONNA GO EAT SOME CANDY AND WRITE A FIGHT SCENE
Stupid DNA.
Day 0: I say to myself, "Self, you're lucky you don't care about guys 'cuz if you did you wouldn't get any good ones."
Day 1: I realize I have started to care. It's happened slowly, but it's happened and I can repress it for a couple days, then it comes back. Freakin' hormones.
Day 2: I feel blood pounding in my ears just like in the books (scout's honor!) when I dream about smooching somebody who looks sort of like him. In my defence I have some of his music and he's very talented.
Day 3: I weep like a wussy girl upon realizing I could live right next to him, or somebody like him, and it wouldn't matter because -I'm finally admitting what I've known since I was 12 -I AM NOT PRETTY. AND IT HURTS. I'd MUCH rather have the short-term pain from another screwdriver accident at work.
Today I learned Gustav Mahler proposed to his special friend by writing her a symphony. She had good taste and a brain and said yes. That's not to say I'm jealous of her and plan on traveling back in time to do something to them, but part of me -nah, all of me! wishes I was pretty enough to look forward to somebody thinking enough of me to create something just for me. If I'm stuck looking like this, the best I can hope for is some asshole in badly-fitting pants chanting words to a horrible "song." And I would shut him up, because I still have some pride and I've got a list of what I want and what I won't stand for. (And I'm no hypocrite, I'm not going on dates until I can pay for some super-nice things.) I would rather stick to my original plan and live and die with my cats. But first, eighty years of self-hatred and jealousy! Yaaay!
And I know jealousy is wrong... but there's no switch I can just flip. All I can do is give some excuse and walk away from any attractive gal (who might've been my gal pal had things been different) before I do or say something uncalled-for. I can't go adventuring overseas like this, I want to be cheerful and confident, not the person trying to hide in the corner of the Brandenburg Gate photo. And there's no way I'm shelling out all that money for a passport photo that I'll want to burn.
Yes, yes, I know there are people in the world with more problems than I've got. I want to help them. I'm not completely cold-hearted. But I want to be happy too, and that's hard when I get up every morning and have the urge to jump out of my body, tear it apart and put it back together in a way that would make me want to try makeup and shinies again. (I have given the whore-paint a try before and discovered it's no Photoshop. It made things worse. Lousy sensitive skin.) I don't even look in mirrors any more when I can help it.
A breakdown of how dear, sweet old Mother Nature screwed me good:
Hair -unappealing black/brown combo (I've never done anything to make it like this, and I wanna be a redhead but combined with my relaxer, stripping the dark color and then adding the red might make me lose it all. FUN)
Eyes -same color, somehow spaced to make me look like I was born yesterday and would love to purchase your swampland, mister (I'M NOT STUPID, I AM MANY THINGS BUT NEVER STUPID)
Face -TOO DAMN WIDE (exercise doesn't help and that really burns me up, and please don't bring up Angelina Jolie because I respect her as an actress and humanitarian but I'd much rather look like Tyra Banks. THERE, I SAID IT)
Voice -TOO DAMN LOW (I like music, but can't sing along)
Combine this with a line beside my nose I'm far too young to have, too many third-grade chicken pox scars and more moles than Brian Jacques could work with in ten lifetimes, and you can understand why I don't like being photographed outside of cosplay. That's also why I usually cosplay male/androgynous/gijinka characters because I feel I have failed physically as a woman. Although with the way my brain works I guess I get a C minus in chick-like thinking too. I like my brain though, it's a part of me that I'm actually proud of. Still, you can't kiss brainpower, you can't put your arms around wit, and to learn how bright someone is you have to decide they're worth investing the time and effort to learn about. And what helps you make that decision?
(I also have some... torso-related issues, but these mostly stem from the Donut Debacle of '02 and the Great Brownie Experiment of '05, and me having taken responsibility for them means I'm not upset about them. Plus they've been shrinking.)
I managed to get an appointment to speak to a plastic surgeon whose office I didn't have to drive 50 miles to reach. HE WON'T DO ANYTHING TO ME. I'm old enough! Honest! (I've read sometimes you have to wait until your life is half-over and anybody you might've wanted has already been taken and you've begun to fall apart. This will not be my path. I will find a better way than thirty years of self-hatred and jealousy.)
I don't think counseling will help. At the worst he'll take my money and be all "Get over it" without telling me how, and at the best he'll take my money and be all "You're beautiful" without telling me how. I can get that for free.
My mother comes from good church-going God-fearing simple country folk and for as long as I can remember has impressed into me knowledge of the Man Upstairs. I have written down the changes I need want to see done, and if He can restore life to some dried-up bones it'll be no problem for Him to re-arrange a few living ones. I see nothing wrong with asking for something that'll help me feel better about myself and, by extension, others.
I'M GONNA GO EAT SOME CANDY AND WRITE A FIGHT SCENE