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Beautiful people don't like to be taken for just a pretty face, and people not so blessed by nature say it's inner beauty that counts. I'm neither here no there, but I'll bet no pretty person would trade places with anyone ugly, and that any ugly person would just as soon trade places with someone beautiful. So, who's trying to kid who when they say external appearances don't matter? Yeah, I care about the "inner stuff" too, it's just that I'd sooner watch it flow from a pretty face than from an ugly one. No law against that, I trust.
This guy wrote me an email, asking me why I didn't visit his site anymore. I felt like telling him because it doesn't do anything for me, it ceased to have any appeal about two weeks after my first visit. But I wasn't honest and replied with half-truths, or half lies, as you would have it. I couldn't bring myself to be blunt. Why did I have to answer him, though? I didn't need to be blunt, but neither did I need to set myself up for more half lies, that are sure to happen in the next few hours.
You don't believe me when I tell you you're beautiful. You say I'm biased. But what about everybody else? I haven't met anyone who doesn't tell you how pretty you are. Still, you act as if we don't know what we're talking about. Well, you might have a point after all. There's a glint in your eyes and a smug smile in your face every time your shrug off yet another compliment. Your looks take my breath away, but this cheap false modesty act you put on makes your beauty crumble before my eyes. Being a liar makes you ugly.
Sally goes to church every day. She says her faith gives her strength to endure her lot in life; a pitiful salary, an abusive boss, a drunken husband, having to rely on welfare to feed her children, the works. She says the peace and quite help her get through each new day. Nobody knows how cold the confessional floor is when she kneels to blow the priest at 6am. Nobody suspects his meager tip for her efforts is what really helps her make all ends meet. So she endures this particular lot in life, too, thank God for her faith.
I was perched on a bench and noticed this couple coming my way. The guy strutted in a self-assured sort of way, which probably had something to do with the fact his girlfriend was an amazingly pretty woman. By the many heads that turned on her wake, the boyfriend and I weren't the only ones who noticed. She was lovely all around, except for the fact she looked totally self-conscious and very uncomfortable with the attention. I looked on, thinking what a pity it was that such a pretty girl would be intimidated by her own looks. What a waste.
Speaking of self-consciousness, I can understand the feeling if it comes from an ugly someone, but I don't get it when it comes from a stunning, drop dead gorgeous somebody. Whenever I see a beautiful person with looks anybody would kill for ill at ease with themselves, for no apparent reason (of course, the reasons wouldn't be apparent, they're all inside their confused pretty heads!), I don't feel any envy that I wasn't dealt the same kind of hand. I just feel like slapping the offender in the face in a bold attempt to shake them out of their insecurities.
Everyone thinks you're smart and adorable. I did too, when I met you, but it didn't last long. It clicked into me that you're not that smart, and anything but adorable. The illusion only lasts for as long as your acquaintances let you have your way. When you feel challenged, mentally or emotionally, you turn into a rabid animal that tears at anything to save face. You've got to come out on top, least your perfect façade crumbles. One day or another, though, you're only going to come out on top of your own shit. Illusions only last that long.
I was peacefully enjoying a drink at a bar yesterday, when three girls sat next to me and started talking way louder than I think is appropriate. Gone was the peace I'd been craving all day. I gave them a "would you mind being a bit quieter" look, and they returned me their own "mind your business" stare. I kept looking, implying "I'd mind my business if you wouldn't make me an unwilling participant in yours." After a few uncomfortable moments, during which my patience took a hike, I said "shut the fuck up already, OK?" So much for manners.
Your power of speech is mesmerizing, and it is downright impressive to watch you captivate your audience. Your listening skills, however, leave something to be desired. We all know you're unparalleled when it comes to talking in public, but you mustn't forget you're not always addressing the nation. Sometimes, you're just in your living room sharing coffee with friends. On those rare occasions, please leave room for the others to also put two words in. Speeches are nice in your line of work, but in your private life they leave people wondering what kind of egocentric jerk they voted for.
Got into a bar brawl yesterday. I was served a dish of testosterone and stupidity that both turned my stomach, and made me conveniently forget I was sinking to the same retarded standards. Anyway, this macho guy wanted to crack someone's skull, but he missed and cracked my drink instead. I jumped in his face, and hissed at him to get me another drink. Thank god these pea brains take forever to decide what to do with a dainty girl like me! Time enough for the bouncer to come to the rescue. I never got a fresh drink, though. Fuck.
Nobody believes you don't care about fashion or trends and that you choose all your clothes off the rack. Nobody believes you don't watch what you eat, that you don't care for low fat stuff, that you never exercise. You're so lovely, your stunning countenance throws them so, that nobody believes you don't need to work for it, sweat for it, pay for it. If the rest of the world needs to suffer to appear half as pretty as you do, then it's not possible that you get it all for free. Is it? Let them wonder. Let them suffer.
You're so brilliant you had me dazzled, at your feet, for a long time. The problem is that now you don't know me at all. I let you have all the room you needed to play with your charm, at the expense of any room I needed to be who I am. You barely know the sound of my voice, let alone the thoughts in my head. But I'm not blaming you; it's not your fault I fell under a spell you don't even know you're casting. I'm old enough to know that conversations either go both ways, or die.
Since you're always cracking jokes at someone's expense, I thought you'd be a sport and take in stride any crack directed at you. Okay, not really. I knew you'd be indignant to be treated in the way you're so fond of treating everybody else. You bestow your venomous tongue on everyone, and it never crosses your mind that the tables might turn on you. I'd say it's a small price to pay if you occasionally get paid with the same coin. And I'd say a single snakebite isn't nearly poisonous enough to make you really squirm. So get over it.
I'm still talking to her even if I can't tell her what I truly think anymore. She blindly believes I'm honest, my usual self, the person she's always known. She hasn't a clue that every time we see each other I'm measuring my every word, if not plain lying through my teeth. I'm torn between severing my ties with her altogether before I insult her or myself any more, and standing by her side, seeing as I am the only friend she's been able to keep. It's a drag when our best friends fall in love with the worst bastards.
Think twice before giving up a secret, if you mean for it to continue being a secret. The moment you let somebody else in, the secret becomes a confidence and it's no longer in your hands to decide its destiny. What for you is a secret, for your confidant is information, and what do they say about information? It's power, figurative maybe, but power nonetheless. When you give up a secret, you're giving your confidant power over you. Figurative, maybe, but power nonetheless. When you give up a secret, you're placing yourself under a Damocles sword of your own creation.
I'm giving you that reckless grin that makes your eyes pop out. I know you adore me when I'm so full of devilish mischief, and I know I scare you somewhat because I make you do things you never thought you would. But you do them, all the way. And I adore you more, and you scare me more, much more, than the other way round, because in all the years we've been together you're the one that ends up surprising me, the one that ends up full of mischief, making me do things I never dreamed I could do.
When he enters the room, I feel blood rushing to my ears and my body coil with tension. I follow him with my gaze, until he's seated about ten feet away from me, and only then can I allow my body to relax enough not to spring at his neck and strangle him. I hate him so much that his entrance in the room seems to create a vacuum of air, preventing me to breathe. I never knew what it was to think the world was too small a place for two people, until I met this evil, disgusting bastard.
Whenever I go into one of my tirades against organized religions, this friend tells me to leave well enough alone and not to criticize religion so much. To each their own, he says. I tell him to leave well enough alone and shut the fuck up. I wouldn't have anything to say against organized religions if they didn't have anything to say about me, but since they choose to judge me instead of letting me be, sometimes I feel the itch to defend myself. What good does this much vitriol do, he asks. What bad does it do, I wonder.
Can't you keep at least one promise? To your wife? To your kids? To yourself? Isn't there anything important, valuable enough for you to keep your word over it, because of it? You're more alone everyday that passes. Nobody's fond of a liar of your proportions. Oh, you fool us long enough to lie to us for a while, but in the long run nobody trusts you to do what you promised to do, nobody trusts you to be a decent human being. In the end, you're a long list of excuses to which nobody wants to listen to anymore.
Amazing how quick your tongue is, pity it always works alone, without the benefit of a brain to back it up. You lash out, and after what seems a good minute, your eyes go very round. That expression marks the moment your brain kicked into gear, and you realize what you said and to whom. That’d be the right time to apologize, and you know it too, but as soon as you open your mouth to say "sorry," the process starts again and instead of "sorry" you mutter "sucker". Your brain never seems able to catch up to your stupidity.
Men whose breasts are bigger than a woman’s. Ugh. Men or women whose belly flows over the belts of their trousers. Ugh. Young kids that weight three times what they should. Ugh. Children that already show obesity on their barely formed bodies. Slap to the parents’ face. I’m pretty much distressed by obesity in all its forms, and I’m only kinda-sorta-semi sorry if it’s due to some disease or another. When it’s caused by uncontrollable, disgusting gluttony, it crosses my mind to put the offenders in jail and throw the key. Make them go on a forced diet, kind of.
I always dreamt of being pretty enough to make a living out of my body, beautiful enough for people to be willing to pay to see me. The fantasy still strikes some days, particularly when I'm the farthest from making a dime out of my looks. Say, when I wake up with dark rings under my eyes big enough to be asking for their own zip code. It hits me then, when it’s obvious that the only money I could squeeze out of this carcass would be by selling it to science, and wish for a prompt death, at that.
I’m wondering why I agreed to meet with this girl for old time’s sake. I’m quite certain we don’t have anything to say to each other, and it’s silly to dwell on a past best laid to rest. Likely, I’ll end up kicking myself for agreeing to such a scheme. Or maybe I’ll draw some satisfaction in the fact she’s still the same person I left, and that I’d leave her again given the chance. Never mind that. If I left it where it is now ten years ago, what got into me to pick it up ten years later?
The guy’s brilliant. His brain works in a way that spellbinds us to his every word. He knows it, we know it, and he knows that we know. And I don’t know how all that knowing hasn’t turned him into a conceited asshole, but it hasn’t. His brilliance is something we all know about but which never gets in the way. He never insults us with false modesty, he’s never condescending, and he never acts as if we owe it to him. And that’s what has us all head over heels in love with him, his class and his simplicity.
We're all very much alike, never mind the cliché that says "normal is boring." Most of us are normal, and some of us are boring. And I wish we would all get over it, collectively. Maybe I'm mistaken, but I hardly ever hear "normal is boring" from someone who's not either or both. I wish I'd never hear it again, especially coming from one of these would-be intellectual gurus who can't even conjure up a more original sentence to try and stand out from the rest. They do stand out alright, because they're pretentious snobs, besides boring, unoriginal and ordinary.
I'm wondering whether I can get away with writing this one entry in Spanish. I'm too mentally exhausted to string up 100 English words, one after the other. At the moment, though, it's seems difficult event to formulate a coherent sentence in Spanish, and besides it'd feel like cheating and I'm all for fair play. So instead of doing it in Spanish, I'm gonna do it the old fashioned way, old fashioned way, old fashioned way, old fashioned way, old fashioned way, old fashioned way, old fashioned way, old fashioned way, old fashioned way, old fashioned way. Yep. That works.
Hey, you're very uncool when you fish for compliments like this. Do you think we don't notice how you're desperately seeking attention and recognition? You try to go about it undercover, but you can help yourself and cry all over the place when we don't give you the time of day. Maybe if you try to be upfront about it, we won't pity you, nor despise you when we're done pitying you. Maybe. It could be that if you're upfront about wanting to be taken for the best, you'll give us the greatest laugh we've had in our entire lives.
Apparently, I wear a virtual button that reads "Hello! How can I help you?" People constantly pick me up amongst strangers on the street to help them with their particular quests. Tourists asking for directions. Mothers asking me to watch their kids for a minute. Old ladies asking me to help them cross the street. Not so old ladies asking me to help put a heavy bag in the trunk. I look in the mirror and try to devise what kind of safety they see in me, but whatever it is I don't see it. Maybe I just smell nice.
In my youth, I was terribly unskilled at the game of pretense. I couldn't pretend if my life depended on it. Whatever I didn't like, you'd hear about it, you'd see it in my bearing. Hell, you'd probably even smell it from a distance. Over time, I started trying on smiles for size and, damn, the first times they fit so poorly they hurt, but somehow I got used to wearing them, like shoes you hate but need to wear for a special occasion. Now I don't hate the shoes so much as the fact I wear them with style.
Have you ever had reality slap you hard in the face? It usually happens when you have a tête-à-tête with it and then deny it. Maybe it doesn't slap you right away, like it knew vengeance is a dish best served cold. But it eventually retaliates. Reality doesn't go away, not even when you turn your back to it. It just hovers on the brink of consciousness, waiting for the chance to push you over the edge. Go on, ignore it. You're going to have a reality check sooner or later. Reality neither gets impatient nor angry; it gets even.
The first time I did this, it looked like a challenge. Never one to pass a challenge, I had to give it a try. Stubborn as I can be, I didn't entertain any doubts whether I'd pull it off. The second time I didn't go at it with as much gusto. I think I just wanted to make sure it hadn't been beginner's luck, or something. Let me tell you, it was a good exercise in discipline, the month dragged on and on. This time around, I'm wondering what's with me. I didn't suspect my masochist impulses ran so deep.
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