That's not a question. That's a statement.
Because, okay, check this:
Isn't she alluring? Don't you, like me, just want to savage her, because you can't control the lust that she calls forth from you? From what? Her 'allure' to be sure, but that's because she's beautiful, isn't she?
I mean, anyone would be a fool to turn down such offered promises of bliss, right? Who could resist that? Only an idiot or a cad, right?
Obviously.
Like I said: obviously.
But, okay, the guy was ... hm, how do I say this politely, without appearing chauvinistic?
Hm, words fail me.
So, okay, the guy was being a guy. But what did the girl, she of the alluring black lace thong take away from this?
What is she saying to herself right now?
What do you say to yourself right now?
What do I say to myself right now?
'God, I'm so ugly/fat/stupid/dumb/useless ...' ... and on, and on, and on.
And why? Why do we say this to ourselves? Because some guy or girl in class gave us a condescending look?
No.
No. That's not it. That's not it at all.
Look at the first picture again. Isn't she the most beautiful thing in the world? Bar nothing? Doesn't she maybe even know it? Damn, she is hot! And she might be saying that to herself at that moment, too. She is fine! and sexy and sweet and smart and beautiful and with it and together and ...
... and everything.
But that's a very, very fragile layer.
We. Us. Me. We are very, very fragile creatures, because underlying that moment of exultation is this.
The voice. That little voice, that is telling us, all the time: you're trash. You're a faker, and you know it. You're nothing. You're shit. You're ugly. You're — oh, God — a disappointment to your parents. They don't love you. You don't deserve love.
It's not other people telling us this: is us. It's me, doing it to myself.
And all I need is this. I just, in my crowing and preening, one person with one glance to confirm what I'm telling myself as I try to use my bravado to bluster my way through this report, or presentation, or triste, or introduction.
I just need that one thing to make my foot moving forward to miss its step for me to fall onto my face. And then I'm that girl who fell down some steps or who flubbed her presentation or who turned in a shit paper or who farted when he was hooking his fingers into my panties or who threw up in the back of your car or tried to look sexy and oh, so failed.
It wasn't you telling me this.
It was me telling me this, and I just happened to use you to prove to me what I know that I actually am.
But, wait a sec. Really.
Look at the girl in the third picture, and look at the girl in the first picture. What is the difference in the two pictures?
No, duh, `phfina, like, huge!
Yes, like: huge!
But is she in the same body? The same skin? The same black lace thong?
Yes. Yes. and Yes. (as I scream out during certain occasions).
So what is the difference?
Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
Except.
Except what she tells herself. She's the exact same beautiful woman, alluring, sweet, smart, sexy, all of that, except for the one crucial difference in what she tells herself she is.
You see where I'm going with this, of course. It's obvious to us, the dispassionate observers.
That guy, that jerk, has nothing to say who she is, and she could just as easily gotten up from the bed, smiled and go out for a drive with the top down and take a dive into the ocean for a cleansing refreshing swim, and then come tell that John that he's taking up space and is no longer welcome.
She could so easily do that.
And it's so easy for us to tell her that: "You rock, gf! You don't need no man to tell you who you are!"
But, that's not the real test.
It's easy — too easy — to see the faults in others and help them with free advice. 'Free' as in it cost you nothing to give it because you have no buy in that other person's well being after you dispense your wisdom and stick your nose in other people's businesses, 'helping' them by pointing out all their failings to them.
No, the real test is where the rubber meets the road.
It's what you tell yourself when you flub that word or trip or puke or laugh at the wrong time (oh, God, the worst! and everybody's looking at you like you know the idiot you are).
That's the hardest.
And the other hardest is this.
'Psst. Psst. Psst!'
Or: "Who does she think she is, wearing that dress like a slut?" "Did you see her make eyes at the VP? Is she going for a promotion ... on her back?"
Or, when somebody says: "I'm going to start my own business in cupcake making!" or: "I got called for a talent call, should I go?"
Do you say: "Oh, you know you're not suited for that Jane, you're just a secretary. Don't reach too high!" or: "Be careful, because my cousin lost his shirt in that" or any and every cautionary way to keep her down, to your level, because if she succeeds, what does that say about you, who are too scared to even think about trying?
Can you be strong enough to encourage somebody else to do something you won't even dare, even though it's risky?
And the other-other hardest is this:
"I'm scum. I'm ugly. I'm panicking. I can't do this!"
What do you do?
"Not my problem. L8R, bitch."
Or: "You're right, you can't, let me hold you and comfort you in the safety of my arms where nothing gets essayed or done."
Or ... what?
Or do you stay with them, all night long, suicide watch, even though you have to drag your sad, tired ass up to work tomorrow morning and explain to the boss why you didn't get that report handed in on time.
Really: on balance, what's more important? Somebody's life and self-worth, or your continued employment and comfort and safety at work?
Really. I'm serious. Which one?
For most of us, it's a sad statement that we'd trade a life for our jobs.
Starting with our own. We sacrifice everything so we can continue to live under the thumb, in fear of, what somebody might think at work when we come into work with circles under our eyes. So we say, "Mom, I'm sorry, I can't take this call now, I'm preparing for a meeting."
And how long to we have our moms? How long do we have another person? Once they're gone, they are gone. But your job? Didn't you get that last summer? Or ten years ago, or whatever? Can't you get a new one? Or, fuck it, jobs are a new thing, folks. People used to just make their way into the wilderness and carve out their existence. Did you ever read Little House on the Prairie? The built their house, they traded for food from wood they cut and furs they collected, they did everything from scratch, and didn't have the bossman fucking them up the ass and paying them a subsistence salary.
There is NO difference from what they did then and what you can do now, today, except you have a lot more going for you. You can bring a gas-operated saw and a water purification system, and you know a lot more about insulation than they did. And if you don't you have google and wikipedia.
The only reason why you are going to school or are going to a job is because, NOT everybody else is doing it and your parents are telling you to, no: it's because you're telling yourself that's what you have to do.
You're telling yourself, all the time, who and what you are.
Right now, you are telling yourself what you are.
And, generally, what you are telling yourself is too sad for me to write or to contemplate, because I'm right there with you.
Now, there are Angels. There are. Really. And they are fighting for you. And they tell you you are a child of God, and you are limitless, and beautiful and they love you.
You have, oh, maybe one or two Angels in your life, ... if you're lucky.
Don't bet on luck. The odds suck.
You have to become an Angel. Perfect yourself. How? By fucking being you.
I don't hate people because they are being themselves. I hate people when they are being less than who they are.
Yes, I hate everybody. With a passion.
I hate you. You talk yourself down, and into a corner, and trap yourself into being ... nothing. You listen to the other angels, the ones that ask you who do you think you are? And you have no answer for that because you listen to yourself all to well when you talk to yourself, when right there, right in front of you, all you have to do is step out, in faith, and there are hosts people, heavenly hosts, supporting you, and loving you, and encouraging you, and all you have to do is shut the fuck up and take that very first, small baby step...
... and the world opens up to you.
And you do try that baby step.
Well, guess what happens when a toddler takes her first step.
She falls, flat on her face. And then she cries.
But the difference between her and you? She gets up, and tries again, because mommy and daddy are right there, and are so excited that she's going to try her first step, again (some of you will get that, later), and when she does, and she wobbles, they are screaming with joy and on the phone and taking pictures and picking her up and twirling her around because she took one little step.
Sweetheart.
It's the same with you. You are a baby. A child of God. And you can either sit there and do nothing and God will love you, and what can God do with that?
EVERYTHING.
Example: Helen Keller.
But what do you do with that is the more pertinent question. Because you go right there and dig yourself deeper into your cesspool.
But when you take that first little step, and Jacob's ladder comes down and the Heavenly Hosts sing hosannas and you realize it's because of you, what can God do with that?
Everything, again.
But what do you do with that?
You take that next step, because that first one wasn't all that bad. And you take that next step, and, hey, I'm getting the hang of this.
And you take that next one.
It's all you, Sweetheart. That's the good news and the bad news. It's all you who determine who and what you are. The past is the past, and, yes, there were terrible things that happened in it for you ... and for others who picked themselves up.
You can pick yourself up. And dare to face the world.
And dare to face, face-to-face, vis-à-vis, to Love. Love is always coming your way. You can dare, now, to accept it, and look at yourself through Love's eyes, and see you as you are.
Beautiful.
I love you.
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The images are from the movie Sita Sings the Blues. the best movie of the year. Which year? Doesn't matter.
Or put another way. Twilight is this:
(thanks shiniez, and I may or may not have permission to post that, but I hope the number of hits to his site skyrocket (from the astronomical number of times I've view his site))
And Sita Sings the Blues is what Twilight could've been if it had the guts to dare to face the real world with a real relationship.
Oh, okay: `phfina's plot synopsis: Love, Loss, Redemption, Now, and Forever. Do yourself a favor: watch it.
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