I am sitting cross legged on the bathroom floor, feeling the cold tile against my backside. Key West unfurls, in all its Technicolor tropic splendor, somewhere beyond this lavish hotel suite but I do not notice. I am panicking.
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I am taking a speech communications class at my college this summer, and today we were expected to share a personal story detailing some transformative moment of our lives.
If we were assigned any other topic, I would have been perfectly okay with this project. Talking about myself makes me want to jump off of a bridge. If we had been told to step before the class and share to the group as a whole, I would have been so much more comfortable. Sharing shit one on one also makes me want to jump off of a bridge. So naturally, the project called for us to share deeply personal issues with a single class mate as the rest of the class observed. Fun times! I just reentered the Land of Single Ladies and Relationship Rejects after some time in a rather shady relationship. I took the necessary time to heal, and reorient, and jumped straight into the fun part: looking around like a puppy in a world full of bacon. As is usually the case with me, my eyes would follow anything tall, dark haired, and breathing, and I have to say. There were some very decent looking guys running around my neck of the woods. (God bless whoever created the muscle shirt. Good gracious, these boys in the gym...) However, I quickly came to find that none of these new connections had any of that gooey, magical substance to them, the feeling that pulled me into the last guy. The conversations felt lackluster, and after about ten minutes of talking to Mr. Ripped Arms, I was actually bored. I saw this questionnaire floating around the Young Writer's Society blogosphere, and thought I'd give it a go. Quirky questions, quirkier answers. You get the gist.
Dear Victoria,
I know you’ve got a business to run. I know, marketing wise, this is the best way for you to roll in the duckets, for example the eight billion you made back in 2016. People naturally flock to the ideal, what they think is perfect, what they themselves want to be. However, I’d like to say screw you and your skinny ass, six foot tall models because if you poke around the real world for five minutes, you will find that the vast majority of women don’t actually look like that. Seeing your Angels strut the stage in those skimpy ensembles makes those of us who are more averagely proportioned feel like slugs in our pajamas. |
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