Big Foot in an alternate universe
Nothing makes me happier than watching the hot person die at the end of a movie, other than having her/him die in the beginning. Beautiful people scare me. If they talk to me I wonder what their hidden, stuck-up, pain-in-the-ass agenda is; if they ignore me I know it’s because they’re stuck-up-pains-in-the-ass anyway. Nothing is more frustrating than feeling flattered at an ounce of attention while letting my brain dissolve like limopani in coldwater when they smile; and I absolutely loathe the look of abject vapidity that comes to my face while I calculate how proportional their nose is with regard to the rest of their face. Deep down inside me a little Gertrude Stein-ish voice sings “A stud is a dud is a dud is a stud is a dud is a dud is a dud” but I’m just not listening. This rhyme will probably continue forever with blood and mud and flood and crud (I’m sure that’s a word) but I’m too dumb to notice that none of these words are pleasant, and that good-looking men are the bane of civil society!!!!
So in the end we come to the conclusion that an asshole called by any other name will still remain an asshole. Hence proved.
Why this rant against all people Jude Law-esque and Brangeline? Simple. My nani’s totkays for becoming ‘fair and lovely’ by slopping everything in the fridge on my face are driving me insane and I hate having to give up my daily cheese sandwich to avoid the mortification of fitting into a size medium t shirt when “according to my height” I should be a size small. Fat people are happy people. They’re non conformists at heart; in fact they’re society’s true rebels. We should follow their lead rather than those famine stricken, size zero (zero’s not even a number!) stick figures we call models.
Honestly, why should I strive for super human beauty when I know the average man is sub humanly ugly? And why is all the stress primarily on women? Is it because we’re more accepting of the opposite gender’s physical faults than they are of ours? or to be honest, of we are of ourselves. We women hate ourselves so much that we go through inconcievable self torture (bread and water is what Britons used to call jail, and we call a diet) to become something no man is asking for; a doll, or a porn star.
Finding a guy is the last reason I should look beautiful. I should look beautiful because I respect myself too much to look like yesterday’s leftover meal. I should look beautiful because i sure as hell am, regardless of my wonky nose, dark circles that resemble war trenches, and ugly hands.
In fact from now on, I refuse to conform to society’s disgusting standards of beauty. I will not rub balai n honey on my face, it makes me sneeze. I will not stop myself from eating the last brownie; damn it, I made it so I’ll eat it! It’s my brownie, mine! And I will not let people degrade me because I’m dark, or a size 6 and not 0, and a shrimpy 5’ 2″. In some alternate universe Bigfoot might resemble George Clooney.