I’m about to write some ugly thoughts but here, have this photo that the working half of my brain can recognize as a nice picture of a decent if unremarkable face, as it’s been a very long time since i’ve been able to look at a photo of myself and think even a fragment of that, momentarily
tomorrow i’m going to buy eyeliner and nice sippin’ whiskey and i couldn’t be more thrilled
I used to take a lot of pride in cheeky costumes that I put a lot of work into but lack of purpose has meant I’ve dialed it in for the last couple of Halloweens. at least I can still take comfort in the fact that my wardrobe is stocked well enough for me to throw something together, call it Extra From a Cure Video and go out and have a night
anyway, I feel my prettiest when I look a little scary
Two weeks into my first semester at college I fell off my bike while going down the ramp on the bay side of campus. I put my left hand out automatically to catch myself and it caught all of my body weight, and the weight of my ancient, heavy, much-loved green bike. I felt and heard a snap and then I couldn’t move my hand. The dean was the only person around, saw the accident and she walked me and my bike to the campus clinic. I had to go to the emergency room for x-rays; six months later when my wrist kept hurting I went to an orthopedic surgeon while I was home for spring break. They scheduled an MRI and found that I had actually torn a ligament in my wrist, instead of the sprain I’d originally thought it was. It doesn’t hurt so often anymore, but when I twist my hand you can hear the bones grinding together. (Two years later I’d tear another ligament in my shoulder in an incredibly embarrassing skiing mishap in Germany. My friend’s father had to drag me down the mountain on my butt while I held on to one of his ski poles.)
When I was not quite two I fell off a chair and broke my arm. Neither of my parents saw it happen and thought I was just being extra cranky - we went to the hospital the next day after they realized something was actually the matter. The nurses didn’t want to let my mother in the room with me, as they assumed the length of time between the injury and bringing me in meant she might have been responsible.
I don’t like my hands. They’re broad and knobbly and the topmost joint of my middle fingers veers off away from my thumb in a strange way. They’re not feminine. I can’t grow long nails without feeling like I’m wearing gloves made from another person’s skin. I do, however, like that they’re functional and strong. My nails are painted now, but polish only lasts a few days because I do so much with my hands. I could never keep a manicure, and part of me is proud of that. It’s problematic, I guess - I still have to keep catching myself when I judge things that are too ‘feminine,’ and often that comes from my own bitterness - but it’s a part of my body that I can appreciate because of its function and not its form. I’m trying to apply that philosophy to the rest of me.
inspired by brooke
my default expression is a lot grumpier than i imagine it to be
(pssst click on it, it moves)
the best time i went to neon liger and ended up sitting next to my high school classmate’s younger sister while she got hit on by some dude and then i had my photo taken by an obnoxious photographer
sorry for ruining the memories of your night out, ladies
sometimes it’s nice to have rosacea because if I put on foundation I don’t need to put on any blush
it is way too difficult to find a photo of a short hairstyle that doesn’t require you to have perfectly straight hair.
I really want to chop off my hair again! It won’t happen until November at the earliest and sometimes when I think about it I start to cry a little, but I feel like it’s something I should do.
- I’m never going to be the person I thought having long hair would make me so why keep it
- I have more reasons to like myself than just my hair
- cutting it off would be a nice fuck-you gesture to the hovering specter of Tom
- it’s just nice to have a change.
BUT. If I’m cutting it off as a symbol of refusing to let my hair define me am I then trying to morph my identity into girl-who-can-pull-off-short-hair? I think that’s a pretty clear identity trope as well.
Of course the fact that I am not a slender sylph of a lady adds more complications to my potential pixie cut. I do have spectacular cheekbones but I am terrified of going around to salons asking for short hair and being once-overed and derisively snorted out of the building.
help. Am I overthinking this? how do I stop doing that?