Blazer: thrifted Ralph Lauren. Brown longsleeve: Apt 9 via Kohl's. Shorts: alloy + DIY button swap. Brown tights: totally from Costco. Oxfords: Payless.W1L 005: Write one leaf about watching cartoons.
I'm just going say that I'm sure someone will consider this one TMI. I don't. Also, I think I liked my original for this one better. But I'd rather have this one out there if the world decides to read it.
The first movie I watched in theaters was an animated Disney film by the name of The Lion King. I cried, because the sound system was so good that even clamping my little hands over my ears couldn’t keep out the thundering of the stampede that trampled Mufasa to death, and because I was afraid of the dark. I still cry when I watch Disney movies, and I’m still kind of afraid of the dark, depending on whether or not I’m coming up the stairs from the basement, but nowadays, it’s less about my delicate ears and more about fairytale love, and how completely unattainable something that innocent seems, especially for someone like me.
I’m twenty, and I’ve never been kissed. I am a loser. I have never experienced requited love, and I flip my shit if I think someone has a crush on me and subzero-shoulder him (there haven’t been any hers), even if I’ve been fantasizing about making witty, suggestive banter and contriving to get him in a broom cupboard for the past six months. The moment someone seems interested, his every potential flaw magnifies seventy-seven times under my laser-bitch-eyes, and being in his presence makes me feel like I’m about to gag because he is so pathetic I can taste the vomit rising in my throat. Every. Time. I am primarily attracted to effeminate men. The first and only guy I ever went on something that could be classified as a date with told me years later that he would go straight for me. Because he is gay. I like men in skirts. I like men in lipstick. I like guyliner. I prefer gay porn, even though porn in general kind of revolts me. What does it mean? It’s so intense.
In the words of Disney’s Rapunzel, when will my life begin?
According to The Frisky, as soon as I stop being Emotional Cripple #8: The Daddy’s Girl.
I don’t even know how to fix myself. What am I supposed to do? Slap some duct tape on my chest? Get a hip replacement? Slice my belly open below my liver, lie on a bed of paper towels, and wait for my daddy issues to drain out? Take a laxative? Poke a toothbrush around the back of my throat? Apply leeches? Have someone blow into my cartridge? (Let's enjoy that silence for a moment.)
Accept it and move on?
Okay.
Sam, I fully accept your crazy. I accept your experimental forays into not shaving and not washing your hair. I accept your attraction to men and to androgyny, and your appreciation of women, but I also accept your distaste for their squishy parts. I accept your daddy issues and your trouble with recognizing intimacy. I accept your sweaty palms and shaky hands when you interact with adult men. I accept your crooked smile and crooked labia. I accept your intense need for alone time and your dislike of cauliflower. I accept that your butt will probably look like cottage cheese in twenty years. I accept your diligence in searching for a right-hand ring, your self-promise ring, and I accept that love is messy, but like is just as messy for you. I accept that you hesitate to trust men. I accept that you still have trouble inserting Tampax Lites, and I accept that you are not blond or a lion or a mermaid or secretly of royal descent, and that you will never be a Disney princess who falls in love with a Disney prince because you will never be able to get a fucking PG rating.
I see your libations and acknowledge them and mix them with the bathwater and remove the baby and throw the rest out.
It’s a girl.
The first movie I watched in theaters was an animated Disney film by the name of The Lion King. I cried, because the sound system was so good that even clamping my little hands over my ears couldn’t keep out the thundering of the stampede that trampled Mufasa to death, and because I was afraid of the dark. I still cry when I watch Disney movies, and I’m still kind of afraid of the dark, depending on whether or not I’m coming up the stairs from the basement, but nowadays, it’s less about my delicate ears and more about fairytale love, and how completely unattainable something that innocent seems, especially for someone like me.
I’m twenty, and I’ve never been kissed. I am a loser. I have never experienced requited love, and I flip my shit if I think someone has a crush on me and subzero-shoulder him (there haven’t been any hers), even if I’ve been fantasizing about making witty, suggestive banter and contriving to get him in a broom cupboard for the past six months. The moment someone seems interested, his every potential flaw magnifies seventy-seven times under my laser-bitch-eyes, and being in his presence makes me feel like I’m about to gag because he is so pathetic I can taste the vomit rising in my throat. Every. Time. I am primarily attracted to effeminate men. The first and only guy I ever went on something that could be classified as a date with told me years later that he would go straight for me. Because he is gay. I like men in skirts. I like men in lipstick. I like guyliner. I prefer gay porn, even though porn in general kind of revolts me. What does it mean? It’s so intense.
In the words of Disney’s Rapunzel, when will my life begin?
According to The Frisky, as soon as I stop being Emotional Cripple #8: The Daddy’s Girl.
I don’t even know how to fix myself. What am I supposed to do? Slap some duct tape on my chest? Get a hip replacement? Slice my belly open below my liver, lie on a bed of paper towels, and wait for my daddy issues to drain out? Take a laxative? Poke a toothbrush around the back of my throat? Apply leeches? Have someone blow into my cartridge? (Let's enjoy that silence for a moment.)
Accept it and move on?
Okay.
Sam, I fully accept your crazy. I accept your experimental forays into not shaving and not washing your hair. I accept your attraction to men and to androgyny, and your appreciation of women, but I also accept your distaste for their squishy parts. I accept your daddy issues and your trouble with recognizing intimacy. I accept your sweaty palms and shaky hands when you interact with adult men. I accept your crooked smile and crooked labia. I accept your intense need for alone time and your dislike of cauliflower. I accept that your butt will probably look like cottage cheese in twenty years. I accept your diligence in searching for a right-hand ring, your self-promise ring, and I accept that love is messy, but like is just as messy for you. I accept that you hesitate to trust men. I accept that you still have trouble inserting Tampax Lites, and I accept that you are not blond or a lion or a mermaid or secretly of royal descent, and that you will never be a Disney princess who falls in love with a Disney prince because you will never be able to get a fucking PG rating.
I see your libations and acknowledge them and mix them with the bathwater and remove the baby and throw the rest out.
It’s a girl.
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