I’m surrounded by the beginning of a painting that’s resting in its easel, a green hairbrush that I’ve had for so long, a bright orange leopard gecko, nine books I’m reading that aren’t even for school on topics from social media brianwashing to the human genome project to the religious hating the logical, brushes, a candle, various Apple products, a stack of blank CDs, a stack of mixed CDs, mints, an empty photo frame, and a hat from New Year’s Eve.
What I’m trying to do is conjure beauty even though I’m a plain looking eighteen year old girl who only physically attracts guys because of her piercings and probably tattoos by now. It’s not that I dislike the way I look, I don’t. I’m happy with it. I’m a size one at 5’8” with 30Ds and my boyfriend is the most gorgeous while loving man alive. So it’s not that but I really don’t know what it is other than the sick irony of me trying to create beauty from a messy vessel of 10 pints of artistic material that so many despise and my panties feel loose because I don’t have an ass. As the figure of speech goes, “you show your ass,” meaning an attitude or something I suppose, or maybe it’s just bearing all. Well I’ve revealed so much of myself, split myself open cracked apart my ribcage and let you suffocate in my entrails that there’s so little left to share so maybe that’s what’s disappearing and maybe I should grow comfortably into the comfort of that conceitedly. There may not be much there for you to grab but at least you can be rest assured that whatever you pinch through my tight Miley jeans it’s reserved for you. Don’t consider it left overs, consider it me not finishing my dinner and purposely bringing you home something. I’m trying to be maternal but not really. I love you.
So now I’m going to cast a gaze back at my dog that most hate and call a fag because I let him prance in a pink bandana, smile, then pick back up the pen and finish the painting I’ve started.
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