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| The heart with a mind of its own.(Be present.) | The mind with a heart of its own.(It's past.) | The dream that is your waking life.(Go there now.) | |||
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The Demon Who Factors Beauty Into Goodness
I've posted other photos of myself here. There are a few of me in my apartment and as a demon and of one of my tattoos. And, of course, there are the ubiquitous boob photos (encased in a bra--so don't think you're running off to look at anything more exciting than your average Sears catalogue). Here's yet another:
I don't know what leads me to post my photo online. I kind of like putting my face on my diary because, in some way, my diary, being so anonymous, makes all of me (including my face) anonymous. I kind of like that feeling. Also, I'm having my period right now and consequently believe myself to be The World's Ugliest Woman. But trust me, it's not like I'm a pretty woman who is just having a bad image day. Because one of the more embarrassing facts about me, sadly, is that I've been mistaken for a man. More than once. So I don't have a pretty, or a girlish, or even a particularly interesting face. I'm one of those women who look in the mirror and have to do that thing where I only focus on, like, one piece of my face so that I can avoid having to notice the effect of the whole. Also, and this is pretty sad, one of the reasons that I often smile a lot is because I think smiling faces look friendly and therefore distract people from the whole "Wow, what an ugly woman she is" reaction, even if only for a moment. Anyway, I'd rather have people think I'm ugly and nice than ugly and mean. God, I'm so parading my insecurities online today, aren't I? This is terrible. One of my demons is The Demon of What You Are Supposed to Look Like. I haven't written online about this particular demon, but she is that demon who leads you to believe that you are unlovable if you are ugly. (I have to tell you that I typed not pretty and had to go back and erase it and put in the truth. I don't want it to be true that I am ugly. I don't want it to be true so much that I feel like telling you in one big rush that I'm really, really smart. That I'm really, really funny. That I work really hard at being a good person, at being nice to others. That I am well-read. That I love children and animals and that they often love me back. I want to insist that there are all these things that make up for my physical manifestation and that I know how pathetic that sounds to write, even anonymously, to total strangers.) She is the demon who reads fashion magazines and compares herself to air-brushed models and Kate Moss. She is the demon who battled external validation and lost. She is the demon who factors standardized ideals of beauty into goodness. I feel really pathetic today. I should probably find some kind of rock to crawl under or some worms to eat. I don't want to be this woman. I don't want to be her or me. Not today.
More lies:
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