The Problem With Beautiful Women

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How do you make yourself unpopular in Melbourne? Being homophobic. Hating gays is as popular as Tony Abbot or chain coffee shops. I think this is great; homophobia is pathetic. But the situation causes difficulties for me, like what happened today.

Today I saw two girls  holding hands, being cute and coupley and saying the silly things lovers do like “Of course I want to go to your Auntie’s dog’s birthday party!” One of the girls was absolutely stunning. The sort of woman that would make Aphrodite want plastic surgery. I could not stop looking at her. I’m 100% straight, but my god was she beautiful.

Some women are like that. Some women are just so incredibly, jaw droppingly, orgasmically, Penelope-Cruz-covered-in-Marshmallow-y beautiful that you can’t not stare. She was one of those women. The women they put on perfume adverts to mesmerise you into forgetting that you’re buying 10ml of gnat’s piss for $300.

 You just can’t not look and look and look. It’s not in a creepy way; I’m not thinking about getting with her. I am just marvelling at the sheer magic of how such incredible beauty exists in such a frail bunch of carbon atoms. She’s art.

And as I was staring at her, I realised that her girlfriend had seen me staring. Her face darkened. The beautiful girl saw her partner’s face, looked around and scowled at me too. She put her arm over her girlfriend’s shoulders.

Oh crap, I recognised the look; it was the one Melbournians save for homophobes and immigration policy.

How did I explain?! I tried to put the fact that I wasn’t thinking homophobic thoughts, I was only thinking about how much she reminded me of the little dormouse in my illustrated Alice in Wonderland book, into my expression. I think I just looked inbred.

The girls rolled their eyes and moved away.

I sighed. I don’t think I could have done anything about it anyway. What would I say? “Hey sorry for staring at you, I’m staring at you because you’re stunning, not because you’re gay, which isn’t something to stare at, well people might stare, but probably only people from the country, but not here, oh you’re from the country….well, great. Ok, I’ll just go and sit in a corner until you forget I exist.” No. I don’t think so.

Ah well. They’ll just think I’m a narrow minded gay basher and I’ll just feel mildly uncomfortable. The world will move on. But it is the problem of beautiful women; you just can’t not look at them. They absorb your attention.

I know you want me…I know you do…

Aside

I have a confession. I’m Britney’s Bitch. I’m one of those mindless, clothingless women who jump up and down in clubs to some sugary, pre-processed bite of Britney’s auto-tuned sighing and writhing. Basically I have no music taste. At all. 

I’m very jealous of people who do have an ear for music. Especially if they can explain to me why they like a song without using the word “fusion” or “post-punk-neo-wave-rave-house-Crayola-caffeine-electro.” I admire people who are passionate and knowledgeable on a subject; music is no exception to that. Plus if they’re really passionate their eyes will sparkle and they’ll start waving their hands excitedly like they’ve seen an elephant playing the Sax. Which is fun to watch.

So I’m very jealous of genuine musos. What I’m not jealous of is people who love music, but who’s first (and often subsequently last) comment to me is “what do you listen to?” Because when I say Pussycat Dolls, and they stare at me like I said I like to pierce my underarms, they’re just being pretentious.

Yes, the lyrics of “I know you want me, I know you do” are perhaps light on literary merit, but the PCD made millions and millions. And the ability to turn a profit is a criteria we generally judge success on. So can’t we say that they’re a successful band? It’s like people who make their money in shipping; it’s not fascinating but we still revere them as businessmen. Can’t I admire them for their ability to turn scant talent, and scanter clothing into a multi million empire?

Admittedly that’s not why I like them, I genuinely just like dancing and if it’s loud, bouncy and not trying to analyse the pain of modern capitalist youth, I’m down. And sometimes, liking things which are as devoid of artistic integrity as a painting by numbers Mona Lisa, are just fun. 

I’ll show you wear to shove that iPhone

Aside

Dear ‘Eye Liner and iphone Hipster’ who cut in front of me,

Your tee shirt is too small. It does not say ‘indie’ – it says ‘I-don’t-know-when-to-use-hot-or- cold- wash.’ Maybe a little bourgeois skill wouldn’t go amiss….?

You’re ordering a fair trade coffee. Yes, I understand that you think you’re saving little African children, whose photos you collect on your wall like arty postcards. But you do realise that your pre-ripped jeans will have been produced by a little Chinese girl in a factory. The only difference is that it’s convenient to drink Fair Trade. It’s not convenient to stop wearing jeans.

May I also add, that by cutting in front of me, I am going to talk very loudly about the artistic brilliance of Britney. Then I’ll wait until you start to shudder convulsively before saying how I feel the lyrics of Katy Perry speak to me on an emotional level.

And , my dear hip one, you may have cut in the line, but I am laughing last. Because I’m a boring, middle class girl who paid attention in Chinese class, instead of being ‘hip’ and arranging my toenail clippings into a sculpture.

You think that the tattoo of a Chinese character on your arm is deep and ethnic. You probably think it says something profound like Love or Honour.

It says Vegetable.

Enjoy your coffee!

Verity

 

I’m sorry, you’ll have to repeat that….

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I thought using unnecessarily complicated words, that invariable sound like tropical diseases, in order to impress people was a teenage phenomenon.Only young people could think sounding like an arsehole is desirable. But apparently not. This is a quote from an academic I’m reading for class this week.

“Reading seemingly transparent autobiographical texts for their nuanced and subtle strategies of spectacular performativity rather than treating them as evidence means allowing for the ways in which a feminist experience itself is imbedded in the social and political. “

Couldn’t they just say they think the author was an attention whore? Or perhaps that underscores the subtle juxtaposition of inter-textual narratives on the nature of purple broccoli.

 

Casual Sex? But what about your life insurance policy?

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I was told I over think things. Which I don’t really agree with because I’d like to think that my behavioural patterns followed a impetuous line that didn’t reflect on my neurotic tendency in my personality, stemming from am incident in early childhood with  snail….

Maybe they were right.

It’s true. I do over think things. Sometimes it’s bad. Sometimes it’s good. Sometimes it’s just plain weird. I am the master of bizarre conclusions from one comment you half implied last Wednesday.

But whenever the pressure is on, I crack. And all because I over think things. The best example is sex.

Oh I think that I can handle the pressure of seducing a stranger, having wild passionate sex, then moving on like a nymphomaniac bird in overpriced knickers. Except in reality when I got to clubs and dance with men (who whatever their age all seem to smell the same) something ticks over in my mind.

I’ll find someone vaguely attractive, they’ll ask me for a drink. I’ll say something I think is witty, they’ll laugh because they didn’t hear me and don’t care, and we’ll go and drink over priced paint stripper.

But by the time ask my name, I’ll already have  disagreed with them over where our children should go to school. I’m already angry at them for not understanding why my parents need to spend Christmas with us. And I’m livid that he ate all the chocolate biscuits but left the wrapper in the kitchen.

So I can never do casual sex. Because i’ll already have divorced him for irreconcilable differences,before he asks me what star sign I am.

But I should look on the bright side. I’ve discovered a  form of contraception that is 100% effective – over analysis!

Cancer? Baby? What?!

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Today my favourite moments were:

I saw the dreadlocked, battle scarred, chain smoking communist that mans the Socialist Alternative stall on campus drinking Coke. Viva la revolucion!

Listening to a guy bitch about his friend “He’s just so horrible. He’s so negative. He never says anything nice about people.” Hmm. The irony seemed a little lost on him. Although this is a guy who would think irony is an adjective to describe red meat.

I was on the phone, when a friend of mine appeared and told me our friend had given birth. Unfortunately, at that moment the person on the phone told me their partner had died of cancer. My brain decided to answer both people at the same time. So out came a confused grunt. To which both people reacted with displeasure.

That was one of those moments so painfully awkward, that the only way you’ll ever be brave enough to remember them is by laughing at yourself.