This world is filled with illusions. Not the good ones. Not the ones found on acid trips. Or, mushroom highs. We are a society that provides too many ways in which to dislike yourself.
That is until the ‘real’ people take a stand!
So hard to shed the ideals…placed on us about beauty. What it is? How it makes us? Where we can take it? Why it is what it is?
Seems the most obvious parallel is…beauty is internal, fear external…and somewhere in between the two shall meet. Inner beauty is that moment when we realize…we cannot have one without the other!
“Someone else’s vision will never be as good as your own vision of your self. Live and die with it ’cause in the end it’s all you have. Lose it and you lose yourself and everything else. I should have listened to myself.”
― Georgia O’Keeffe
My eating habits are much like an ethnic elderly women’s; if you are sad, eat, if you are, happy, eat, if you feel sick, you are not eating enough, eat for emotions it will never fail you.
Bullshit! I’ve now gone to the local not for anyone up and coming gallery that is conveniently right down the street from where I live. Following my mother home I know just two car lengths ahead of me she sits at a red light, thinking, what am I going to do with her?
Her being me!
You can take the trash out of the trailer but you can’t take the trailer out of the trash. Any friend I’ve ever had I searched diligently for on an app for Facebook. I have now hit over 300. Don’t know most of those people but they are my friend. At least, in my dumbed down innocent way, I am led to believe that.
I can’t always hang out with Zoey because she enjoys piercings and knives. Mother Theresa doesn’t understand that kind of twenty something philosophy. Therefore, any time allotted for Zoey must be infrequent and others need to be around.
In other words, Mother Theresa allows an occasional outing with Zoey as long as, we are in a very public place.
The only bosom buddy I have that receives any approval from Mommy Dearest is, Bianca.
I tell you this in secrecy and beg for no Facebook messaging. Bianca considers herself an artist with an edge. Bianca is no more an artist then I am a picture taker. She has not depth. I have no depth. Certainly a requirement in becoming an artist.
I love Bianca dearly but the sobriety thing seems to get in the way. Sure as a depressive feels persecuted, Bianca will invite over for a slumber party and guilt me into eating, drinking, smoking weed and watching movies about mythical creatures.
I like Bianca, she’s fatter than I. That helps with the body image problem I have. Every drunk loves another drunk, misery loves company.
My mother approves of Bianca only because she is a fellow worshipper of the Catch Phrase College that Theresa works at. In mother’s eyes, Bianca cannot be white trash by simply being a mouse in the maze of the propaganda my mother hands out to her all students.
Did I sleep with Bianca? Shit no. I find her body repulsive. I find her vacant attempts are being artsy dismaying. I dislike in her what I dislike in myself.
She stands for nothing. I stand for nothing. We both fall for anything and medicate ourselves into thinking we are something we are not.
I look down at my hand as it open the driver’s side door. There are two thins markings on the inside of my wrist. Suicide is never easy if you don’t read the directions carefully. I am never lucid and clear on days like today. Wanting to cleanse myself of my incarceration of parental living quarters. I had been looking most of the day for a job. The only thing I am good at is exposing myself; nudity in camera, canvas or internet form. Sex, no I’m not any good at that. I’m too self-absorbed. I’m too self-destructive.
My next job? Shit, if I know. I’m still waiting to hear from the Civil Liberties Union. Still waiting on a court date. Can’t do too much I may have to take the fall for my cries of wolves upon a deaf audience.
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