Hm

Am I just weird, or does the dude who was once supposed to be Rochester there on the right look seriously bangable?

I need to work on painting/drawing plain/ugly people, gosh damn.

Excuse the swearing.

Analyzing My Non-sexuality and Romance

I sometimes wonder if I am asexual.

Wait, is that right? Asexual usually refers to organisms that reproduce on their own, without the participation of another organism, right? Or am I wrong?

I really need to brush up on my biology.

Okay, starting again.

I sometimes wonder if I am nonsexual.
Hmm. Still sounds funny. Whatever. Moving on, for real this time.

It's not necessarily that I don't have interests in the opposite sex. I do. However, when I start to think about the concept of the Relationship, I get turned off. Two people meet, sparks fly for some reason, things are romantic and uncertain for a little while, and then after a few weeks, they are in a Relationship. They settle down a little, create nicknames for each other, participate in shameless public displays of affection, and do everything together. They see each other everyday, and if they happen to not see one another everyday by some cruel twist of fate, they talk on the phone with their lips puckered and mumble sweet nothings and "I miss you's" and take fifteen minutes to say good bye.

At this point, our couple is solid -- they have become used to each other, and know almost everything about one another's lives, and what they're thinking about. The intrigue is gone. Instead there's familiarity, and that time where you begin to see your significant other's flaws. You start to complain about their habits to your friends.

"He shits with the bathroom door open. I can't stand it. He's like an animal!"

"She's always leaving her bloody tampons in the garbage where I can see them. She's like an animal!"

Like most relationships, it eventually ends, as the two lovebirds cool down and can finally see again, free from the haze of blinding romance. They're back to reality, and just aren't that into each other anymore.

The guy and girl (or girl and girl, or guy and guy, or guy and bench, doesn't matter really) are sick of one another and are beginning to look around for fresh new prospects. It's time to start the whole process over again. And again. And again.

See why this turns me off?

Or maybe, to return to my original point, I'm not a/nonsexual. Maybe I'm like Scarlett Johanssen, who doesn't believe in just screwing one person and staying with them forever. I like the idea of intrigue, not knowing enough about a person to criticize them. Maybe I'm a commitmentphobe. Maybe I'd prefer flings.

I did not just say that.

Anyway, for me, I'd much rather see a guy and fantasize about what he might be like, instead of experiencing the harsh cut of reality when he says he prefers sultry babes and then not so subtly digs wax out of his ear with his fingernail. Or spits on the sidewalk. I hate it when a guy does that. It's disgusting, and indicates that he couldn't care less about being a gentleman.

Maybe my standards are too high.

Should I lower them? For some reason I find this idea appalling. It puts a bad taste in my mouth.

Am I a flake? A daydreamer? A useless blob who'd rather get lost in Fantasy Land? It's so childish, this rejection of reality. But it's oh so addictive, and feels so good.

What I'm getting at, is, ultimately, that I enjoy being single. Occasionally I'll feel all blah and "Nobody cares about me" and "Baawwwww" but really, I love having privacy, and being able to do whatever I feel like doing without having to consult my "better half". I don't have to worry about another person like they're my Siamese twin.

It's great!

Before I get any complaints (cue crickets chirping), I'd like to say that I have nothing against the general population and the general decision to be a part of a couple. Most people are in relationships, and that's okay. If things work for you, then it's all good.

What I rail against is people who throw themselves into the dating pool because they feel worthless or desperate to conform to societal norms. I used to pressure myself, and my sister used to pick on me about not having a boyfriend. She basically referred to me as a lesbian, which I am not (girls irritate the hell out me; there is just no way), and this led to me being extremely ashamed and embarrassed. Obviously, one should not be ashamed about their sexuality. However, I was upset about being called something I am not. This occurred during my awkward years, when I was already wanting for self esteem and didn't have any understanding peers to confide in. My sister's teasing made me feel worse.

Over the years, as a singleton, I've obviously gotten comfortable with my status. I like it. It suits me. I'm a solitary type of person. I'm not interested in adjusting my routines and quirks around someone else's. I'm not interested in sharing a bed with another person, either. I like sleeping alone, thanks.

My outlook became even rosier when a friend of mine pointed me to a book called Quirkyalone: A Manifesto for Uncompromising Romantics by Sasha Cagen. I don't like to label myself, or even really define myself, but this little book got me excited. I took the quiz at the beginning (even though I'd done it once already on the website) and, to quote Sasha, "Ooh la la" -- a perfect match! I had found something that gave meaning to how I felt, and why I was so different from other girls in high school and college when it came to relationships. I'm not a standalone freak! Yessss!

It was a quiet moment of triumph (most of my triumphs, though few, usually are), but there might as well have been thousands of people standing around cheering and with speakers blasting "We Are the Champions". I felt so much more confident about my feelings. About myself. Quirkyalones are, as described by the author, people who refuse to date just for the sake of dating and being "normal", and who instead choose to stay single until they meet a person who completely blows them away (not in a violent manner, of course). Someone who exceeds one's standards and is truly special.

I don't consider myself to be a mushy gushy romantic. But I don't think you have to be the hardcore, Jane Austin-worshipping, poetic, delicate "lily" with emotions like tidal waves in order to be a "romantic". I think it just applies to a person who refuses to take part in something that does not occupy all of their heart and soul; all their care. A person that naturally claims these things is the only one worth dating. You don't make smoochy noises and scatter rose petals on the bed. You just have your own special customs, and that, I believe, is truly romantic.

Employment status: Hopeless

Making Empty Statements

Driving around today, I ended up behind a jeep of some sort with a sticker on the rear window that said, "Gas sucks. Ride a bike."

Irony anyone?

After getting my hair done at RIAH, the salon (which I will explain momentarily), I putzed around, went to Best Buy with the faint hopes of finding Shadow of the Colossus among the vintage PS2 Greatest Hits. My search proved fruitless, so I drove down to the library and picked up a few CDs, two Depeche Mode and one Elvis Costello. The girl checking out my CDs said Playing the Angel was good. I said "okay".

The pretty waves Joanna put in my hair with the curling iron have gotten sort of limp. I forgot to ask her if brushing my hair after its been curled is a bad idea. And mention that "loose waves" for me means flatness lifelessness. She used a light hairspray. I'm thinking next time she should use cement.

RIAH is, as it advertises, an experience -- not just a salon. This is true. I've been there several times now in the last few years, and it's a nice place. They serve you beverages if you like (water or a soft drink, with ice) or even snacks. The first thing you get is a hair washing, and then, one of the best parts of the "experience", the aroma therapeutic scalp massage. The room where your hair is washed is dimly lit, with little decorative fountains that provide a calming trickling sound. There is soft music, and tapestries on the walls. After they wash your hair, you get to choose one out of three different aromatherapy scents, which the stylist will then rub into your hair while they massage your poor aching head, neck, and shoulders. I'd hold up a bank to get one of those everyday.

Anyway, despite walking out of RIAH feeling like $250,000, this feeling didn't last. My hair, which I believe has a life of its own, is not interested in looking decent for more than twenty minutes. I wonder if maybe my face is the problem. I could have a movie star hairstyle but my face just doesn't look right with anything. It's a face best concealed by a paper bag with cut out eye holes.

Self loathing aside, there's not much I can do about my stubborn follicles. I wonder if Nick Arrojo himself would have any luck taming "the beast".


Employment Status: Nada

A Narcissistic Treatise

I'm no beauty, but after I showered this evening I decided to part my hair on the left side for a change. I'd normally shy away from doing this, because when I was about five I fell off my bike and scraped my head on the sidewalk, leaving a small roundish scar near the center of my hairline. When I part my hair on the right, it covers the scar. It's a little harder to cover when I part it the other way. But I decided to do it anyway (I've got nothing better to do), and in doing so had an epiphany.

In trying to hide one's physical flaws, you may end up making yourself look worse.

See, I'm kind of a weirdo; sometimes I couldn't care less what I look like, and am generally low-maintenance. Other times, I think I'm more horrifying than Quasimodo and need to put an extra hour's work into my appearance. I suppose you could say my obsession with my "ugliness" all started when I discovered what I actually looked like, from everyone else's view.

It was a disappointing day.

When I look at myself in the mirror, I think I'm above average on the looks graph. My face looks, for the most part, symmetrical, and on good days I think I'm almost pretty. But then when I saw some photos of myself, and acquired a small hand mirror which I used in front of the bathroom mirror to scrutinize my REAL face (I know, I'm insane), my stomach kind of shriveled up a little and I began to semi-obsess about my whacked out facial structure.

Why the hell is my left eyebrow jacked up like that? Why are my cheeks so puffy? Since when did my mouth drift over a little to the left? Why is my nose crooked? And OHMYGOD, my left eye is drifting AWAY from my nose! Grotesque!

In short, and being honest with myself, I realized I wasn't all that pretty. I was average at best. Maybe even ugly, from an unflattering angle. I have discovered my "bad side".

After that fateful discovery of my hideous visage, I tried out a few things to make my face look less like one side had been mashed with the forceps when I was surgically extracted from my mother's womb. I attempted brushing my left eyebrow down, and even plucked off a few top hairs. That didn't do anything, and I wound up with holes in my eyebrow. I tried plucking the bottom hairs off the OTHER brow, but that just thinned it out and looked weird. For a second I think I contemplated shaving them off and drawing them back on, as my grandmother does, but luckily that thought flitted away just as quickly as it had come.

Facial reconstruction surgery is rightfully reserved for accident victims, but some days I can't help wishing I was like Tally Youngblood from those Scott Westerfeld books (which kick ass), where, at sixteen, girls and boys go through a highly advanced "surgery" where they become totally gorgeous and attractive in every way. You could say they get super enhanced bodies and faces.

Makeup didn't ease my dilemma. Unless I had a professional working on my face everyday, like, say, an airbrush artist, nothing was going to move my features to their aesthetically correct places.

Last summer, I got my hair cut. Back in high school, my hair was long and parted in the center. This style wasn't completely unflattering to my face shape, but it was boring. Almost hippy-ish. So I got it cut shorter, but not only that, I got bangs. Bangs, which I hadn't had since I was a gangly little kid. Maybe 11 or so. I had them side swept, because I wasn't a fan of the "devour half of your head" kind that just sit there and do nothing but look outdated. When trying out different parts, I requested that Joanna part my hair from the right side. She complied. It was a change, but I liked it. The scar on my hairline, a literal bald spot, you could say, was no longer visible.

My hair has grown about four inches since last summer, and my "bangs" are half the length of the rest of my hair now. Lately, I've gotten antsy about my hair, and noticed that having it parted from the right hasn't really done much for my appearance. Because it's parted on the right, all the hair is piled to the left. The right side of my hair looks thinned and flat (my hair is thin, but abundant, and I didn't want to look like I had any less) and the other side is almost voluminous. Kind of.

So, subconsciously, I've been obsessing over my appearance and being jealous of pretty girls with symmetrical faces and high cheekbones. And thick hair. And small feet. But that's another matter I won't suffer you with.

Which leads to this very night -- or last night, to get technical -- when I contemplated parting my hair the other way. I suppose my mother's reminder to call the salon for an appointment had some influence on my decision; either way, I thought, why not? And combed my wet hair from left to right.

It actually made a teeny tiny difference, but then, that's all it really takes sometimes to freshen things up. Before, when I had tried to completely conceal my scar and soften the harshness of my face, I was actually making it worse.

Kind of reminds me of when I was a freshman in high school, and actually LAYERED my pants because I was so self conscious about how skinny and gawky I was. I can't tell you how glad I am to be out of my early teens. Luckily I've filled out some, thanks to my indolent tendencies and fatty diet. You could say, "Yeah, yeah yeah. It's called growing up," but I think it took me longer to physically develop than other girls. Naturally, my boobs probably stopped growing back in grade school, and will probably always remain a 32A. My only consolation is that hopefully they'll still have a little perk by the time other women's are sagging down to their waists.

When I was in middle school, I had no sense of style, in any shape or form. My hair was a frizzy, glaring indicator of puberty, and, in epic ignorance, I slapped sticky globs of gel onto it. I was even more fussy than I am today; any stray hairs were unacceptable, and I wore up to four or five clips in my hair. My hair was a demon I had to wrestle in those days, even though I've known girls who have hair that was and is much more beastly than mine.

Makeup was also something new, and I caked foundation onto my face that was probably too dark, and smudged blue eyeshadow onto my lids with my fingers. I didn't know good posture yet (this I didn't become consistently mindful of until maybe a year ago, if that, sadly), and my large feet looked even larger because of my skinny legs and bony ankles. I had braces, a palate-splitting and lower jaw extending device glued to my teeth that caused me endless amounts of pain and embarrassment, that had to be removed five months early because it was gouging a hole into my cheek, and incredibly low self esteem. I wanted to look presentable, but didn't know how. I didn't understand anything.

Middle school was much worse than high school. For me, high school was almost a blessing. In middle school, the girls were cruel and had established clear levels of the popularity hierarchy. Girls were either awkward and plain and didn't know what to do with themselves, or they were stylish, and both physically and socially mature. I was still very shy, and still relatively new to the town in which I'd been living for a few years.

I was a freaky little thing, though I had a couple of somewhat friends. I didn't socialize much though. It was around this time that I became very insecure, and sort of withdrew into myself. My parents worried that I was depressed.

My senior year of high school was one of the better years, where I had a small, but wonderfully unique coterie of established friends (the friends I had throughout my school years has changed quite a bit, especially since my family has moved a couple of times). I was aware of my dorkiness and chose to embrace it, instead of trying to be someone else. I wasn't interested in popularity. Fuck that. I had weird, wise-beyond-their-years friends, and a few younger individuals who were no less interesting that I wasn't as close with, but feel honored to have known. I'm definitely ready to get out into the world and make some new friends -- the few from high school I hardly see, though we try to stay in touch. But the more the merrier, right?

Well, it's one in the morning now, so I'd better wrap this up.

Being an unemployed college student who will be graduating next spring is frightening. We people tend to forget that despite what we do, we still have minimal control over our lives, and what happens to us. I feel like I'm grasping at sand, or thin air -- apparently, applying to various establishments just isn't enough to actually get me hired. But what can I do? Demand employment at gunpoint? If only I had a gun...

Despite my insecurities and trivial concerns, the one thing I appreciate about growing up is the ability (for me, at least, I try not to speak for everyone) to take things in, and actually understand them in a positive way. When I was younger, I had a tendency to reject some of the helpful things my parents told me as silly, and retreated back into my mental cocoon to feel sorry for myself.

I still have plenty of days where I feel unattractive, but it's gotten easier for me to take advice from others seriously, and be able to stand back and look at myself and see what I can work on. Not just physically, of course -- I've been able to identify what I've been doing to hold myself back, and that I (here's an "Ah ha" moment) have ridiculously high standards for everyone else, but MYSELF. I want to be a good, useful person in the world, but I do little to combat the laziness to do so. I can talk to my parents about things I feel, about myself and everything else. My parents say I've always been more mature than others in some ways, and maybe I have, but I think this is the point in my life where the real maturing begins -- when things get really tough, and my own self doubts get in the way.

Obsessing about my possible ugliness isn't going to get me a job and an income. It's not going to get me a college degree. Instead of worrying about flaws and trying to cover them, just accept them as part of what you are and don't whine about them.

That will only draw attention and make people feel sorry and a little annoyed that they even bothered to hang out with you.