you better be a perfect ten or just forget about it. for life.

This weekend I was so not impressed with the peek-a-book we all got to have of Salma Hayek’s titty tattoo. Just, why? What exactly was going through her head when she posted this?

At first I felt angry. Then enraged. Is that what we’re supposed to be doing now as women? Is this type of thing the best we can do? 

I had no choice but to view this Salma Hayek luxury lifestyle exhibit / propaganda because it was in the news feed. Along with some famous lady’s kid’s outfit. Really?? Ugh !!!

I can’t rally the anger now. It didn’t last long. Now I just feel …. sad. We’re not just star struck, we’re star stung.

I’m not saying never wear makeup for the rest of your life, never buy a nice new dress, etc. But the pressure on us has become quite overblown and it’s time to put the bullshit up on blast.

I’m not buying this notion floating around that it’s so brave to parade our bodies half-naked or nude in public and that’s how you earn your respect and admiration. Nothing against nudity generally speaking, I like the hot springs too. I’m just saying this is NOT the bravest thing.

The bravest thing is to not buy into the glamour obsession, the injections, the filters, the industries making millions and billions of dollars off of our insecurity, our disenfrancischment and disempowerment as women. The bravest thing is to recognize that our lives are worth more than fashion, beauty, food and fancy diets, and our bodies. Even though it seems that’s where we’re most safe, accepted, and dare I say valued. But our existence is worth more than just for entertainment.

They’ve put us in our place. Which is in Entertainment. You could say it’s our #1 industry now, more than ever before, and we feel like shit for a reason. Let’s not forget that our bodies are used to sell and make people shitloads of money. That’s all they care about. They don’t care about us and they don’t care about art. They care about money and it’s easy when consumers are brainwashed as fuck.

It’s not that entertainment is bad. There’s a place for entertainment. It’s that we seem to be relegated to this role whether we actually work in entertainment or not. The role of providing (someone) with amusement or enjoyment – Dictionary.com’s definition of to entertain. Also to receive someone as a guest and provide them with food or drink. To give attention or consideration to (something). Service with a facelift. Don’t trip.

And it’s no secret that entertainers’ actual abilities and talents matter only as much, if not less, than having and maintaining their fuckability. At any expense. Specifically if you’re a woman. You better be a perfect ten. For life.

Doomed to be overrated for the wrong reasons. And underrated for the exact same reasons.

Who exactly is most entertained, and who suffers?

Somehow all this manipulation gets disguised as progress for women. It looks like it builds us up, just as it keeps us down. Even as we secretly underrate ourselves in a kind of collective perfectionism that spreads like a disease, it’s like we’re supposed to be done. We’re supposed to act like we got what we wanted, so be grateful and shut up. I don’t think so. Somebody’s got to call it out, might as well be me. Because there’s no way I can walk away from Salma Hayek’s titty tattoo without considering its deeper significance. Because we’re all smarter than we pretend.

Recently my lover made a huge deal about how smart Stormy Daniels is. Interesting. I don’t think, in our seven off and on years, he’s ever called me smart even once. Or intelligent or anything of the sort. It’s almost as if he does that on purpose, but I’ve never faulted him for what might be no more than a reflection of his own insecurities. But Stormy Daniels? She’s so smart, in fact, it was as if he needed to go out of his way to express this point to me. Right.

I’m sure she is INCREDIBLY impressive. Considering we have no idea who this woman really is, we have never met her, all we know of her is what’s on television and the internet. And yes, she was smart enough to sell the looks and body to a powerful white man with a big mouth and a bunch of money, smart enough to cash in on everyone’s lowest common denominator in service to everyone’s bottom line including hers, and then open a couple of lawsuits because that just makes you look even more clever. And probably smart enough to invest in enough quality plastic surgery and products to deceive 7 billion people. Everybody knows that if we’re willing to go through that, people will want to work with you. Because you will do whatever it takes.

It’s quite mysterious. Seven years and he still talks to me, so I can’t be that dumb. Yet for some reason this prestigious word “smart” is sooner applied to this totally abstract person. Tv wins. I lose. I’m average, right? I get it, right? Nice girl. It’s not his fault if he’s wrong. And it’s not his fault if he’s fucking brainwashed. This shit is everywhere.

Are you smart enough to sell out? I’m not. Clearly.

Last week I painted my nails with my $6 bottle of polish and it completely changed my reality for three days. Imagine if I bought a pair of fake tits? How much would my reality change? How much more respect and admiration would I earn?

What else could I have done with that 6 bucks and that 20 minutes?

And isn’t it kind of… scary to put something foreign into your body? I’m scared just thinking about it. Yet I understand why people do. Look around us at what we have to live with.

It’s time we remind ourselves and our lovers about the difference between real and fake, first of all by looking at the parts of ourselves that either already are fake or want to be more fake. And recognize that even as we love the men in our lives and don’t want to make them feel bad, the fact is that this is still a man’s world, that we’re still being put in our place, that we’re still totally objectified if not worse than ever before, that we’re being manipulated and controlled and we don’t have voice and we’re broke. It’s time we come to realize that how far we’ve come just isn’t good enough. IT’S NOT fucking GOOD ENOUGH !!!!

Tell me who gets best served, in this hookup culture we live in?

Who is best served in this culture of flashy, sexy, glamorous images of girls and women? And who pays for it? Who pays for it?

It’s desperately, pathetically sad what we go through.

Where are our favorite heroes? Excuse me, heroines. Salma? Hollywood? Marvel comics?

Look at the picture. All Salma achieves in this moment is make us wish we had bigger boobs, a different kind of face, or that we can buy a new tattoo. It might be time to bust out that credit card.

This shit fucking WORKS. And they know it.

I wanted to read the real news, and I’m not sorry but Salma Hayek’s breast just doesn’t make the cut for me. What else is new, other than women will have to be jealous and hate themselves and men will jack off?

It’s so old. Don’t you wish you could look like me? Don’t you wish you could fuck me? Don’t you wish …

Is this the best we can do?


this blog is bare bones for a reason

Actually on the other platform it was even more simple. Didn’t waste time choosing a theme, I just went with the default. I love that. Like a skeleton. Not even trying to get the perfect look, just basic.

Because this isn’t about having an image gallery.

It’s not about blowing it up with pictures of my bootie as if that’s all I should ever need to say.

The other platform isn’t even up to current standards. That’s why it was perfect. There’s something attractive about it, but plain. It was built for words.

Plain is what I wanted.

The type was tiny. Not bold, puffed up, artificially-enlarged like everything else we have to live with, ugh. I’m so tired of feeling burned by everyone’s flash.

I want plain to be okay. Because underneath all the other garbage, that’s what I need to allow myself to be. Fancy is unforgiving. Let some typos stay, like wrinkles. I want no money spent, no SEO obsession, no publishing this shit at the “right” times, to express this. How about when the moment strikes, I just start typing? How about whenever I feel like it, I press send?

The billions of pictures are so loud it’s like pollution, yeah duh. Not just picture pollution though, but luxury pollution. I wanted to go off-grid in the internet world. I wanted to be able to say I went for the default theme on the most modest, understated, and least glossy platform. But if the whole point is to write in public, the other platform kinda sucks for that because nobody goes there because it’s not a fucking image gallery. Right?

I find myself bringing the stuff back here. It seems more people visit here and I do like the interface.  I’d picked the most straightforward theme and set up in maybe an hour and I’m starting to like it. Even though I already miss the other place. My eyes felt like resting. It was nice.

The last time I launched a new blog, I might as well have been planning a wedding. That’s what happens when looks are everything, in your head of everyone else’s hearts.

 

 

 

 

Those Women I Want to Be

Cute.  Squirrels jumping trees, the branches swishing noisily, playfully.  I do love living here. 

I like my job and I couldn’t always say that.  This is all new.  The hourly is good. I work many half-days but that’s a blessing in disguise.

What I don’t like is being in debt.  That’s really what inspired this blog. Because there’s something taboo about the talk of money. And about what kind of opportunity we really have and don’t have, realistically.

What I don’t like is being single, feeling like I want to go out on dates and look pretty, but I can’t afford to look pretty, that’s the truth. 

What I don’t like is expressing this angst, anger, frustration, whatever, about the way we’re treated and it’s not cute, it’s not what we’re supposed to do and nobody wants to hear it.  We’re supposed to put up gorgeous pictures of ourselves, make ourselves look good at any expense.  Any expense. 

Everything we have, if we have to.   

I saw this woman on Sunday and she looked absolutely gorgeous.  I wanted to look like her, but I had to check myself.  How much would I have to pay to look like that?  I know the cost of hair in a quality salon around here.  Hers looked to be about $300-$500 for cut and color with ombre (her hair was quite long).  It looked fantastic on her.  That makeup, those clothes.  She looked so sexy and alluring.  How much would I have to spend on all that?  And how much time would I have to put into that? 

I used to be like this.  I used to put in the money and the effort, even when I was broke.  I found the money for my appearance.  And now I regret it.  Not that I did what I wanted to do, but I regret the times I really was broke, yet feeling like my appearance was so important that I would give up meager resources of money and time when I really had neither.  It seems like such a waste. 

If I actually have the money, perhaps that would be different?  Sort of.  Only in the sense that it wouldn’t be quite as stupid.  But right now I really don’t.  I have to accept myself as I am.  And yeah it’s a choice, too. I’m simply not going to scrounge up that money. I’m simply not going to choose my appearance over financial freedom. It’s not worth it. The extra boost of superficial attention will not be worth it.

Someone might say, well maybe I’m just repressing my sexuality and femininity by rejecting beauty and fashion.  But those industries are making so much money off me, so much and the truth is I don’t have the money, I don’t have the resources.  How many are like me?  And how many are like the old me, spending what I really didn’t have just to feel worthy and valuable? 

I’m mad because this culture makes me feel like I have to spend all this money on my appearance just because I’m a woman, or else.  If men don’t have to thread their eyebrows, why should I?  I’m broke.  Let’s be real here. 

I don’t believe beauty can be cheap.  Nothing is cheap when you have debt.  Every extra dollar you spend is just more interest you’re paying to some ginormous company, adding to its millions and billions of dollars.  They are taking your money.  What’s left for you?  Don’t tell me the beauty industry is for me.  Don’t even tell me these college loans were for me, all these profits they’re making off of us.  LOL !!!!!! 

I’m going to work now.  My hair looks terrible, I desperately need a new style.  But I’m not spending even $38.00 for that right now, at least not until these credit card bills are paid.  The credit card bills are the first to tackle. Four thousand eight hundred and fifty dollars total.

Some part of me is dying to be those women, all those type of women I see, some part of me is dying to play the fool, but it truly is all bullshit. 

I’m diving right in

with little to no explanation. 

I’ve been out there, pouring my heart out to strangers and feeling like a freak but also just feeling like i’m right. 

I’m not oging to get organizded in this blog, I’m not gooing to be organized, stay organized when I get there, I’m just going to blurt this shit out out. 

As it comes. 

It’s going to be unprofessional, messy, maybe even

ugly.  At times.  Unlike other recent writings, the poetry and the essays and the stories, this is not for editing.  This is not for getting it right. 

This is not for making it look good.