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| Felice Fawn Damn Ain't she fuckin' fabulous. |
So yes (did ya geddit?) this title is an allusion to 'The King and I'. Of course 'The Fuckbuddy and I' lacks the epic romantic content of that novel but makes up for it in other categories. Or atleast it did (but that's a story for another day).Why is he relevant? Well: Yesterday he asked me to send him a picture of myself to show to a curious friend. (Who knows why she was curious? Your guess is as good as mine.) And I've become a bit obsessed with that picture. Yes of myself! I know. So narcissistic.
He asked me for the picture and I was immediately in a flap. Hot. Hot. Must look hot in picture. Anxiety. Teeth grinding. Panic fluttering. Quickly: hair somewhat sloppily sorta-straightened/tamed, cover hormone induced zits around mouth, also conceal redness around nose (remember to re-insert piercing), and hide deep dark bruisome half moons beneath eyes. Tinted lipgloss. Mascara. A touch of eyeliner. The hair not too perfect. The face not too overdone. I'm wearing a simple dark blue racer-back tank top. Gather up my thin hair and position it over one shoulder. It's messy. Hopefully resembling the 'just fucked look'. I don't smile. I purse my lips ever so slightly. Stick out my already (thank nature) prominent and defined square jaw. Tilting my head down to create a shadow that will prevent my pale skin from giving me the appearance of a chinless worm. I open my eyes wide (but not too wide, I wouldn"t want to appear as though I had just been anally probed) and look upward into the mirror. And take the picture. Crap. It's crap. Repeat. Ah!
Now through some strange allignment of luck and lighting I look really good in this picture. Sexy even. Beautiful even. My body conceals half of my left arm, so I seem thinner. The light permeats the gap between my camera-holding arm, so I seem thinner. Gravity has concealed the flab hanging from that arm, so, again, I seem thinner. My fingers, which curl over my phone, depressing the centre key mid-shot, seem delicate, poised yet relaxed, and most importantly; thin.
Obviously it's all fake. The make-up. The orchestration. The breathe held and head positioned. It's total bullshit. Artifice. Artificial. And I wish, more than anything, that I was that girl - the girl in the photograph - every second of every day. I stare at it and stare at it. She's beautiful. She's me. But she's not. Made-up. Captured. One instant of beauty in perhaps a lifetime. I can't believe that's me! I shouldn't; because she's not.
Fuck you fuckbuddy, fuck you, and thank you. Thank you for not being ashamed of sleeping with me. For being willing to show a photograph of me to another human being. One random person who I don't know and who's opinion I shouldn't care about. But of course I do. Fuckfuckfuck loathsome horrible body and face and mouth and neck and sternum and knees and elbows and teeth and claws. Fuck it all. And fuck you photograph girl: who refuses to exist but only purses her lips, almost green eyes wide open, staring, staring, staring into the mirror, trying to sell herself as sexy and confident, covered in grime, beaten up and body contorted, trying to please a person who wants only to fuck but doesn't give one.
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| Give a f**k? Didn't think so. |
It was a bad bad day. Not as bad as they can be. But still not good, not good at all.
Firstly: I have to confess.
Must add a cup of earl grey with milk and two pickles to last night's intake.
Okay: Today.
One cup earl grey with milk.
Brunch of salad (corn, soy, cucumber, tomato, tabasco, lemon, pepper).
A lot of coke zero.
Chocolate cereal.
Oats.
Soy protein with tabasco and hummus.
Two ricecakes with chilli, hummus, tomato, cucumber, salt, pepper.
One teaspoon peanut butter.
3 ricecakes with peanut butter.
*purge*
More chocalate cereal.
One pistachio.
One giant matzah cracker with hummus.
... And I still found/maintained 61. Thank you body! (You fucked up worthless piece of shit.)
*do better*
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