Seconds anyone?

There has been a huge problem in my life that I can’t weed out no matter how I try. My body. Huge problem. I love women that don’t fit into gender boundaries and walk proudly. I love them because I don’t have the courage to be one of them. I walk proudly but I am a good actor. I am so tired of looking at myself in the mirror and wishing that I looked better, slimmer, sexier, whatever. I am never completely happy when my eyes tango with a mirror. I don’t want to believe what the mirror says and it never changes to suite my sensibilities. I could starve myself and be skinny for a while, but it won’t stay for very long. And I know I would never stop if it were made easy for me for even a moment. I wouldn’t quit until my clothes weigh more than me, then I might have a light snack. But thank Goddess it isn’t easy to diet or we as a people wouldn’t see curvy women ever again. Not one. They would all disappear down the drain along with tonights gourmet dinner. (Seconds anyone?)

I was taught in not-so-subtle ways during my formative years that I’d better not grow an inch wider, ever, or I’ll have a horrible life. Those teachings were absolutely ridiculous, but unfortunately they were right. I hate to admit it, but the fact that they taught me this makes them right. I will have a horrible life because I am larger then a paper weight. Now I shall spend a good portion of my money, effort, livelihood, thought, free time, and (worst of all) self-esteem trying to concoct a way get back to the size that I was in grade school (because THAT is the current fashion.) Although, I hear that fetuses are sexy these days so that might become an even less achievable goal for the average woman. When are men going to just admit that they fantasize about fucking children? Just get it out and over with, so that we can get you all some counseling, and women of the world can get back being a size 12 or so.

The disturbing thing is that, now that I think of it, I was given these guidelines by women. It has always been a woman that has made me feel lower than dogshit due to my dress size. Funny that! Additionally, the “knowledge” I recieve about my body usually comes from… My Family. I remember an x-mas many years ago where at the tender age of 16, I got diet pills in one of my shiny wrapped packages from “Santa” (my grandmother). Apparently she had gotten a really good deal on some locally made herbal diet pills (speed) and decided to spread the wealth. I was the only grandchild to receive them. I was also the only grandchild that weighed in “higher then she should”. I come from “athletic stock” and therefore I am huge disappointment to those that are supposed to love me and happen to share my DNA.

But my brainwashing must have started much earlier, because I was an unknown-to-be-suicidal child. I made suicide pacts with myself several times before the age of 13. I remember at 10 I was laying the bathtub one night, and decided that if I were to lay on my side in the tub and notice that my hips were taller than the tub I would kill myself with one of my mom’s razors. My hips have since spread to that of a full grown woman’s and have been taller than the tub ring on several occasions. I haven’t tried to kill myself, but this has arisen an odd tendency to carefully scrutinize the bathtub when moving into a new place. Your childhood affects who you are. (Sidenote: later on that same year, I made a pact to kill myself if I ever got pregnant. Once again, I haven’t tried to kill myself, but I’ve never been pregnant either.)

I’m tired. I am so tired of hating myself, and trying to push myself into the mini fridge. Even Ani Difranco pisses me off sometimes. She’s a great spokeswoman for women’s rights and common sense, but she is also 5’2″ and even pregnant, couldn’t have weighed more than a buck-o five at the time. She is small and gorgeous so people are more inclined to listen to her music and listen to her theories. Because she is a “woman”. That is a cruel thing for me to say, but I am hating myself right now and feel no reason to leave well enough alone. So, I won’t erase it and I won’t apologize. Besides, Ani isn’t aware that I exist. I highly doubt that she would give a damn for anything that I have to say. Fuck it!

How do I feel? At the moment I feel like a feeble, simpering idiot with no obvious sense of priorities nor self worth. I feel that I have wasted my time and the time of anyone that has taken the time to read this pile of garbage. But then again, I get the feeling that I am not alone. And that someone out there feels the same way. Maybe we could find a cure for self-hatred together, and surprise attack the world at large. Goddess knows that we haven’t been able to do it alone. Know what I mean?

If I were a stripper…

If I were a stripper, I would limit my song selection to that of Ani DiFranco and Joan Jett (maybe a little Voltaire on the nights that I am feeling goofy). If I am going to dance around like a half-naked fool on stage, I’ll do it to music that I like, Dammit!

If I were a stripper, I’d fart during lap-dances on purpose. Any man insistent upon getting close enough to smell my knickers deserves the full tour.

If I were a stripper, I’d use a pair of ancient, malicious-looking scissors to remove my clothing. And if anyone tried to touch me I’d stab them with those same scissors then promptly return to what I was doing.

If I were a stripper, I’d morph my hair into a rainbow colored Mohawk, because I think that style would really suite my personality. Plus, I am of the opinion that I could have boogers hanging out of my nose and I’d still be sexy. Therefore, my appearance is merely an identifying characteristic and has no real bearing on how appealing I am. (Any who disagree with this theory can have a round with my blowtorch, because I DIDN’T ASK YOU.) Moving on…

If I were a stripper, all over my body I would apply messages with glow in the dark body paint like…

“Sharpen Your Daughters.”

“My Body, My Rules”

“Unless”

“Fuck War”

“If you lived here, you’d be home now.”

“Don’t drop the soap for anyone, but me.”

…and other stuff. Maybe once in a while I’d use Mud or fake blood instead. (For dramatic effect.)

If I were a stripper, I would work out all of the time! I would lift weights, and take kickboxing classes! Not to lose weight though. I just want to be a bouncer part time. I’d love a job that gives me an excuse to kick some ass on a regular basis. That would make my fucking day!

And this is because I like being naked. And I don’t see a problem with getting paid to be naked, or even flirting. Elsewhere, I do it for free. But I would never actually be a stripper because of the middle-aged greasy fucks that I would have to strip for. Eww…or worse yet…The fucking frat boys. (Advice: Polo shirts look great on lesbians, but not so much on you guys.) Personally speaking, I think that all frat boys should have to wear a sign that says, “Beware of date rape.” There is no way I am taking my clothes off in front of a whole pack of ‘em. I am smarter than that!