Sunday, July 26, 2015
Wednesday, July 15, 2015
Self Esteem Issues
No one ever tells you that self-esteem issues don't disappear into oblivion once you hit a certain age; most would assume those plagued by low self esteem usually leave it behind once they graduate their teen years, or at the very latest, their early twenties. I know that a lot of people in today's world struggle from self esteem issues, including myself. How can you not? Especially if you are a woman. Everywhere you look, you're surrounded by media idolizing beautiful people, some born with their good looks as a result of genetics, and others who have made themselves "beautiful" with the help of cosmetic surgery (ex. Kim Kardashian, Lana Del Ray, Kylie Jenner, Megan Fox (I mean, she was pretty beautiful before... but come on now.. those lips are not hers). It's hard to feel confident when you're constantly told by society what constitutes beauty and what defines beauty and you find you may not have those specific qualifications. We are raised with parents, care-givers, teachers, and mentors stressing to us time and time again "it's what is on the inside that counts," but once we hit the real world, we know that is bullshit. I mean, what is on the inside is what actually matters, and it is what truly defines who we actually are, but to say that looks can be overlooked, is a lie.
Living in NYC for the past few years, it has become only more concrete that looks can get you anywhere in this life (granted you have half a brain cell and aren't completely abhorrent to be around). Models and attractive women get the most sought after jobs... you can be a bottle server at 1oak making bank every night if you are tall, thin, and have a good face. You may be very personable and fun, but if you are short, chubby, and/or don't have perfect features, you won't be getting a job as a bottle server at 1oak making $600+ a night. With the influx of social media monopolizing more and more of our free time, it is also apparent what the rest of society and more specifically, if you are a straight woman, what men find desirable.
The ideal woman is thin, with curves in the right places (tiny waist, hips, nice butt, and maybe boobs... although here in NYC, men like skeletal types with aa cups because that signifies model status). We see girls who are "instagram models" or insta-famous... they have thousands of followers and post selfies featuring their tight bodies on the beach, their pouty lips that may or may not be a result of injectible fillers, and their sculpted abs and Brazilian beach bums. We can't help but take a hit in the good ol' self esteem every time the man we like or our boyfriend starts following such a perfect (possibly photo=shopped) creature or likes one of her photos. We can't help but measure ourselves against the rest of the photo-shopped masses of women on social media, in magazine, on tv, on the radio, or the real life beauties at the club every time our boyfriend takes a second glance at one of them or every time you see a dude you think is attractive sidling up next to a woman who seems cosmetically perfect on the outside.
We tell ourselves that it's ok, because we are so much more than just our exterior appearance. We are smart, we are fun, we are funny, we know how to cook and will actually eat the food we cook with you (because unlike those anorexic model types we actually do eat), we have talents, and we are attractive in our own, unique ways. No matter how much we tell ourselves though, we all have underlying insecurity about parts of ourselves.. guys and girls alike. We may or may not talk about it, but you best believe that in certain moments, we feel more insecure than others about said parts.
We live in a country that tells us to "love ourselves" and to "accept and embrace beauty of all forms," yet we are constantly fed images of photo-shopped, genetically perfect people. We fear getting older, getting wrinkles, gaining weight, losing our youth and beauty, because despite the Dove "love yourself" campaigns, we all know the girls being featured on billboards and being idolized by men and women are alike are all tall, thin, and beautiful.
We start off with all of the self confidence in the world- we are born narcissistic and loving ourselves; we think we are the greatest and the center of the universe. As we get older and more aware and start listening to the world around us, we lose faith in ourselves, comparing and contrasting ourselves to our peers, taking note of what the world around us says and defines as good-looking. Unless you're really fricking cute or genetically bless, the adolescent stage chips away at the ol' self esteem block once you enter puberty and start looking awkward as fuck. I've posted this pic before, and I'll post it again... but this was me as a child:
Did I think of myself as being hideous? No... because I had a lot of friends and teachers loved me because I was an exemplary student. I was smart, I was good at art, and I was nice, so I never really thought about my looks when I was 7 or 8. I started self-hating when I hit middle school and everyone else had straight, silky hair and button noses, I still hadn't grown into my nose and had a wild fro of red hair that could never be tamed. Other girls got tan, and I got freckled and bruised. I was really into fashion and the style channel and wanted to be tall and thin so I could be a model. You can imagine the disappointment I felt when I stopped growing at 14 and developed hips and boobs while some of the girls that I used to dance with had legs that were as thin and long as a gazelle's and no boobs at all up until they hit like 20 or stopped dancing. I know we always want what we don't have, but you eventually learn to make the best of it. It took a long time to accept myself, and to make the best of what I was given.
I learned to accept my body shape- I have a tiny waist and an ass. No matter how thin I am, I'll always have a butt and meatier thighs, but you know, I learned to appreciate it especially after realizing a lot of girls would kill for curves and a flat stomach. I struggled a lot in college with my self esteem. I didn't have a boyfriend until I was 22 and I was convinced it was because I wasn't pretty enough or thin enough; in reality, I'm quite sure it's because I wasn't outgoing and inhibited due to being so painfully self-conscious and having almost no confidence in myself. It almost hurts to think back to a time when I hated myself so much because I felt like I didn't measure up to society's standard of what pretty is.
I'm 27 now and have learned to make the best of what I have. After college, when I was no longer drinking 6 nights out of 7 nights of the week and living on processed and frozen foods and being peer pressured into eating pizza at 2am, I lost a lot of weight. I still think I could be thinner some days, but that's just how I'm programmed to think. I know that I'm pretty fortunate to have a body I don't even work for and abuse to hell and back. I'm not trying to brag right now, I'm just trying to prove a point- as much as I can recognize how fortunate I am not to have to work out and to still have abs, I still have moments where I think I'm not good enough because I am not tall enough or thin enough or have nice enough facial features to be enviable levels of pretty. It doesn't matter how many compliments a week I might get, because of my history and fragile self-esteem, it only takes one misinterpreted comment or back-handed compliment to cause me to come crashing back down to that 19 year old girl I was at FIT. I go straight back to that girl that went to Vegas with her family and refused to put on a swimsuit or wear shorts in the 103 degree desert heat because she thought she was too fat to get half naked in public (I was about 20 lbs heavier than because I consumed upwards of 3000 calories a day (not even lying) and didn't live an active lifestyle at all).
It doesn't matter that I wake up and actually like what I see in the mirror most days. It doesn't matter how many good compliments or catcalls I might elicit every week, because of years of programming in thinking that I'm not good enough comes back to haunt me with the littlest misdemeanor. I've slowly learned to love my face, it photographs pretty fucking well, I have a smile most people have to pay for in the form of years of braces, and my muscles are well defined without doing a lick of work. However, last night, despite feeling pretty hot and confident, all it took was a comment from a homeless man, Yes, A FUCKING HOMELESS MAN, to make me feel like turning around and going home and drinking myself to death. I don't know why I let other people bring me down or build me up. But I am still that very impressionable and easily influenced 16 year old under it all, and other people's opinions can still make or break me.
Yes, ladies and gentleman, I let a homeless man begging me for money influence my self-worth last night after I walked past him and he screamed after me "come back Lady Gaga." That's all it took to ruin my night, and it's so, so fucked up that a comment like that would ruin my night. Some might think Lady Gaga is hot, but the majority do not agree. In fact, when you read comments on articles written about her online, the vast majority bash her looks and say awful fucking things about her face and body. So to have a guy tell me that I look like her was a real, low, blow. I don't think I look like her at all to be honest... but I wasn't thinking that last night. I was convinced that I was fat, should not have been wearing the crop top that I was wearing as a result, felt like the walk of self confidence I had was unwarranted given the fact that I must, in fact, be hideous, and felt my entire inner being shrivel up in mortification. I seriously wanted to go home. As I approached the line to get into Le Bain, I suddenly felt like I was a joke and wanted to die. Everyone in line seemed infinitely better looking than me and I felt ashamed of my appearance. I felt ashamed that I was wearing a crop top, I felt ashamed that I had my hair pulled back and wasn't hiding my face underneath of it the way that I did for years of my life. I felt short, and inadequate. Because of a stupid fucking comment from a HOMELESS man.
Then my despair turned into anger. I suddenly wanted to rip apart every fucking person before me. "Oh look at that fucking anorexic Russian model doing the slow, staggered slut walk to the Dream hotel, looking like she hasn't had a meal in months. Once she hit 6ft tall at the age of 12, her cold-hearted, money-hungry, Russian mother (because this is how all Russian women are...) probably said to the father, 'let's stop feeding her... this way, she go to America and make us lots of money as model or escort.'" Walking down W 16th Street, everything became so evident and obvious. The entire fucking nightlife scene is bullshit. NYC is bullshit.
-Next we went to Gilded Lily where the jacked door dude said he was jealous of my six pack... it wasn't enough to eradicate the Lady Gaga comment though. As we entered the downstairs club, my thoughts turned even more evil. "Look at these fucking disgusting, ghetto people at Gilded Lily. They're so fucking gross grinding on each other like fucking animals... I want to leave." Next we went to the box, where again, there was a line waiting to enter and an incompetent door man on his phone who only let in a *get this* a group of FIVE (5) jersey trash looking MEN (yes, all MEN). I was disgusted. He apparently let them in because at that time, the club was only taking tables getting bottle service. My disgust and hatred of humanity grew 10x. I hated every last normal looking mother fucker waiting around the door. I hated the women wearing heels less than 4 inches tall with frumpy shirts on. I hated the men in their tees and jeans looking like they came from Jersey. I hated the fucking doorman. I hated the entire city. I couldn't believe this was what my life had come down to.
Living in NYC for the past few years, it has become only more concrete that looks can get you anywhere in this life (granted you have half a brain cell and aren't completely abhorrent to be around). Models and attractive women get the most sought after jobs... you can be a bottle server at 1oak making bank every night if you are tall, thin, and have a good face. You may be very personable and fun, but if you are short, chubby, and/or don't have perfect features, you won't be getting a job as a bottle server at 1oak making $600+ a night. With the influx of social media monopolizing more and more of our free time, it is also apparent what the rest of society and more specifically, if you are a straight woman, what men find desirable.
The ideal woman is thin, with curves in the right places (tiny waist, hips, nice butt, and maybe boobs... although here in NYC, men like skeletal types with aa cups because that signifies model status). We see girls who are "instagram models" or insta-famous... they have thousands of followers and post selfies featuring their tight bodies on the beach, their pouty lips that may or may not be a result of injectible fillers, and their sculpted abs and Brazilian beach bums. We can't help but take a hit in the good ol' self esteem every time the man we like or our boyfriend starts following such a perfect (possibly photo=shopped) creature or likes one of her photos. We can't help but measure ourselves against the rest of the photo-shopped masses of women on social media, in magazine, on tv, on the radio, or the real life beauties at the club every time our boyfriend takes a second glance at one of them or every time you see a dude you think is attractive sidling up next to a woman who seems cosmetically perfect on the outside.
We tell ourselves that it's ok, because we are so much more than just our exterior appearance. We are smart, we are fun, we are funny, we know how to cook and will actually eat the food we cook with you (because unlike those anorexic model types we actually do eat), we have talents, and we are attractive in our own, unique ways. No matter how much we tell ourselves though, we all have underlying insecurity about parts of ourselves.. guys and girls alike. We may or may not talk about it, but you best believe that in certain moments, we feel more insecure than others about said parts.
We live in a country that tells us to "love ourselves" and to "accept and embrace beauty of all forms," yet we are constantly fed images of photo-shopped, genetically perfect people. We fear getting older, getting wrinkles, gaining weight, losing our youth and beauty, because despite the Dove "love yourself" campaigns, we all know the girls being featured on billboards and being idolized by men and women are alike are all tall, thin, and beautiful.
We start off with all of the self confidence in the world- we are born narcissistic and loving ourselves; we think we are the greatest and the center of the universe. As we get older and more aware and start listening to the world around us, we lose faith in ourselves, comparing and contrasting ourselves to our peers, taking note of what the world around us says and defines as good-looking. Unless you're really fricking cute or genetically bless, the adolescent stage chips away at the ol' self esteem block once you enter puberty and start looking awkward as fuck. I've posted this pic before, and I'll post it again... but this was me as a child:
Did I think of myself as being hideous? No... because I had a lot of friends and teachers loved me because I was an exemplary student. I was smart, I was good at art, and I was nice, so I never really thought about my looks when I was 7 or 8. I started self-hating when I hit middle school and everyone else had straight, silky hair and button noses, I still hadn't grown into my nose and had a wild fro of red hair that could never be tamed. Other girls got tan, and I got freckled and bruised. I was really into fashion and the style channel and wanted to be tall and thin so I could be a model. You can imagine the disappointment I felt when I stopped growing at 14 and developed hips and boobs while some of the girls that I used to dance with had legs that were as thin and long as a gazelle's and no boobs at all up until they hit like 20 or stopped dancing. I know we always want what we don't have, but you eventually learn to make the best of it. It took a long time to accept myself, and to make the best of what I was given.
I learned to accept my body shape- I have a tiny waist and an ass. No matter how thin I am, I'll always have a butt and meatier thighs, but you know, I learned to appreciate it especially after realizing a lot of girls would kill for curves and a flat stomach. I struggled a lot in college with my self esteem. I didn't have a boyfriend until I was 22 and I was convinced it was because I wasn't pretty enough or thin enough; in reality, I'm quite sure it's because I wasn't outgoing and inhibited due to being so painfully self-conscious and having almost no confidence in myself. It almost hurts to think back to a time when I hated myself so much because I felt like I didn't measure up to society's standard of what pretty is.
I'm 27 now and have learned to make the best of what I have. After college, when I was no longer drinking 6 nights out of 7 nights of the week and living on processed and frozen foods and being peer pressured into eating pizza at 2am, I lost a lot of weight. I still think I could be thinner some days, but that's just how I'm programmed to think. I know that I'm pretty fortunate to have a body I don't even work for and abuse to hell and back. I'm not trying to brag right now, I'm just trying to prove a point- as much as I can recognize how fortunate I am not to have to work out and to still have abs, I still have moments where I think I'm not good enough because I am not tall enough or thin enough or have nice enough facial features to be enviable levels of pretty. It doesn't matter how many compliments a week I might get, because of my history and fragile self-esteem, it only takes one misinterpreted comment or back-handed compliment to cause me to come crashing back down to that 19 year old girl I was at FIT. I go straight back to that girl that went to Vegas with her family and refused to put on a swimsuit or wear shorts in the 103 degree desert heat because she thought she was too fat to get half naked in public (I was about 20 lbs heavier than because I consumed upwards of 3000 calories a day (not even lying) and didn't live an active lifestyle at all).
It doesn't matter that I wake up and actually like what I see in the mirror most days. It doesn't matter how many good compliments or catcalls I might elicit every week, because of years of programming in thinking that I'm not good enough comes back to haunt me with the littlest misdemeanor. I've slowly learned to love my face, it photographs pretty fucking well, I have a smile most people have to pay for in the form of years of braces, and my muscles are well defined without doing a lick of work. However, last night, despite feeling pretty hot and confident, all it took was a comment from a homeless man, Yes, A FUCKING HOMELESS MAN, to make me feel like turning around and going home and drinking myself to death. I don't know why I let other people bring me down or build me up. But I am still that very impressionable and easily influenced 16 year old under it all, and other people's opinions can still make or break me.
Yes, ladies and gentleman, I let a homeless man begging me for money influence my self-worth last night after I walked past him and he screamed after me "come back Lady Gaga." That's all it took to ruin my night, and it's so, so fucked up that a comment like that would ruin my night. Some might think Lady Gaga is hot, but the majority do not agree. In fact, when you read comments on articles written about her online, the vast majority bash her looks and say awful fucking things about her face and body. So to have a guy tell me that I look like her was a real, low, blow. I don't think I look like her at all to be honest... but I wasn't thinking that last night. I was convinced that I was fat, should not have been wearing the crop top that I was wearing as a result, felt like the walk of self confidence I had was unwarranted given the fact that I must, in fact, be hideous, and felt my entire inner being shrivel up in mortification. I seriously wanted to go home. As I approached the line to get into Le Bain, I suddenly felt like I was a joke and wanted to die. Everyone in line seemed infinitely better looking than me and I felt ashamed of my appearance. I felt ashamed that I was wearing a crop top, I felt ashamed that I had my hair pulled back and wasn't hiding my face underneath of it the way that I did for years of my life. I felt short, and inadequate. Because of a stupid fucking comment from a HOMELESS man.
Then my despair turned into anger. I suddenly wanted to rip apart every fucking person before me. "Oh look at that fucking anorexic Russian model doing the slow, staggered slut walk to the Dream hotel, looking like she hasn't had a meal in months. Once she hit 6ft tall at the age of 12, her cold-hearted, money-hungry, Russian mother (because this is how all Russian women are...) probably said to the father, 'let's stop feeding her... this way, she go to America and make us lots of money as model or escort.'" Walking down W 16th Street, everything became so evident and obvious. The entire fucking nightlife scene is bullshit. NYC is bullshit.
-Next we went to Gilded Lily where the jacked door dude said he was jealous of my six pack... it wasn't enough to eradicate the Lady Gaga comment though. As we entered the downstairs club, my thoughts turned even more evil. "Look at these fucking disgusting, ghetto people at Gilded Lily. They're so fucking gross grinding on each other like fucking animals... I want to leave." Next we went to the box, where again, there was a line waiting to enter and an incompetent door man on his phone who only let in a *get this* a group of FIVE (5) jersey trash looking MEN (yes, all MEN). I was disgusted. He apparently let them in because at that time, the club was only taking tables getting bottle service. My disgust and hatred of humanity grew 10x. I hated every last normal looking mother fucker waiting around the door. I hated the women wearing heels less than 4 inches tall with frumpy shirts on. I hated the men in their tees and jeans looking like they came from Jersey. I hated the fucking doorman. I hated the entire city. I couldn't believe this was what my life had come down to.
Saturday, July 11, 2015
Then She Get Hit By a Car
Once upon a time (yes, that is how all great stories start), there was a scraggly little girl who was always a big fucking mess. She was never well maintained, and always a step behind the rest of the game. While most ladies living in NYC shell out the big bucks for a cut and color every couple of months, weekly mani pedis, the latest in BB Creme foundation, and Brazilian waxes, little Gemma was not most ladies. She usually had chipped nail polish that she painted on herself, razor burn from shaving, flaky skin from sleeping in winter foundation three nights running, clumpy, drug-store brand mascara, and an array of brightly colored bruises from her drunken revelries and daily life. Yes, while most ladies spent the summer achieving a goddess-like bronze tone from vacationing and weekend trips to the Hamptons, Gemma maintained a deathly palor thanks to her inability to tan, and a job that kept her inside during most hours of sunlight. She was a bit pudgy because she also didn't give a fuck about doing spin class and pilates three times a week, nor did she subsist off of organic arugula salads with a spritz of organic lemon juice for daily sustenance.
Gemma was a far, far removed cry from the blown out blondes, with their anorexic fawn legs who pranced around the upper East side with their Chanel bags and their lash extensioned eyelashes. She was also a far cry from the tanned, toned, lip-filler filled gold-diggers hanging around Meat Packing. She was a long shot from the bony, cigarette smoking, diet coke guzzling models who hung out at VIP Room, and she didn't really fit in with the edgy scene kids taking molly every night and partying in Brooklyn either. Basically, it is safe to say that Gemma was, for lack of a better word, a reject. She was an outcast for as long as she could remember. Her friends were few and far between. As flawed as she was, Gemma somehow managed to find a very, very hot foreign boyfriend one summer. She wasn't sure why he liked her, or why he didn't abandon her after they slept together on the first date, but she couldn't believe that she would ever land such a hot bloke. The issue with this gentleman was however, that he was an up and coming rocker.
Yes, Gemma's boyfriend was out almost every night of the week playing gigs. When he wasn't playing at one of the city's coolest music venues, you could find him promoting at clubs like Tao Downtown, Avenue, Provocateur, and the rooftop at the Gansevoort. As I've previously stated, he was very hot, and very foreign, which meant that he was a target of women everywhere. Poor Gemma felt so inadequate every time she went to watch him play a show or went to one of the clubs he promoted at. She felt like a little, disheveled field mouse standing next to the waif like creatures who belonged to agencies like One Model Management, Elite, and Ford. She wondered if she starved herself for 3 months straight if she could even begin to come close to such ludacris levels of emaciation and beauty. She wondered if she shelled out 700 for a cut and color at Oscar Blandi if her hair might be even a quarter as immaculate as the gorgeous, Argentinian models with the waist-length brunette tresses doing lines in the corner of Electric Room. "Maybe if I get some botox I too can be beautiful," she thought to herself one night as she stared at her reflection in the bathroom of Electric room. Then she caught site of a group of blonde, Ukrainian models exiting the stalls behind her... "Maybe not," she sighed.
Poor Gemma. As the years went on, she only became increasingly ugly. There were fine lines around her lips and eyes when she smiled. Her lips thinned out, and her skin lost collagen. Her boyfriend's success grew, and even though he was not opposed to the idea of them getting married, he always kept it to, "some day, not now... but maybe someday I will want to." Well, I tell ya' kid- 7 years flies by pretty fucking fast in this cold-hearted town. Gemma was a young girl of only 25 when she had started dating Max... she might not have been a great beauty, but at that time, she was in good shape. Her skin hadn't aged due to stress, a diet high in Cheetos and coffee, and hormonal acne. She had a more positive outlook on life then, she had been hopeful for a bright future.
Seven years of being led-on with the false hope that marriage was in her future later, Gemma woke up one day and realized she was a 32 year old woman, with decaying looks, a burgeoning waist-line, and deteriorating hope that things would improve. Her boyfriend of seven years now had minor success in the music industry and was getting recognized by passerby on the street. Her boyfriend had been cheating on her for the past three years of their relationship. Every time that Gemma couldn't make it to a show due to her early-morning work schedule, he would end up going home with a bartender or a 22 year old Brazilian. She had tried to have "the talk" with him many times, which usually went something like this:
"Hey babe, I know that you don't want to get married right now, but you know, some day I do. I don't see why I should waste anymore of my time or these precious years with a person who doesn't want the same thing that I want. Should we even be together?"
His response was always the same:
"I TOLD YOU A MILLION TIMES!!! I don't want to get married now or ANYTIME SOON!!! Goddammit! Why do you always pressure me?! How many times have I told you???"
But the fact of the matter was, she didn't really know what his version of "anytime soon" meant anymore, seeing as how seven years together had past. Gemma knew she wasn't getting any younger. She certainly wasn't getting any prettier. She always said that she didn't want to wake up to find herself 34 and unmarried and here it was becoming her reality. She kept hanging on though because she loved him and didn't know what else to do at this point. She decided to give the relationship another couple of years.
And so it was that Gemma woke up one day at the ripe age of 35, unmarried, and having spent the past 10 years of her life loving a man who she knew wouldn't give her the future she wanted, cheated on her, and clearly didn't love her back. It was on her 35th birthday that she awoke, alone in bed. It was strange to wake up alone since Max almost always slept in later than her. She meandered out of the bedroom to the kitchen, to find a note on the table that read the following:
"Hmmm," she thought to herself, "that's funny- Max usually sleeps in later than me and he doesn't even drink milk." Curious things began to cross her mind. "It must all just be an elaborate surprise for my birthday" she thought. Gemma decided that he must have forgotten to buy her a present, or perhaps had to run out for a card or something and that he would probably be returning shortly. She went into the bathroom and looked herself in the mirror to pretty up her face before he returned home. As she went to dab some concealer under her eyes, she observed herself. She was a far cry from the girl she had been at 25. She had dark circles under her eyes, crows feet at the corners. Her lips were thin and turned down at the corners. Heavy lines on either side of her mouth. Her skin was beginning to sag on her jowls, and her hair was spotted with about 30% whites now. She sighed, and thought to herself "Maybe this is the year- I can still look good in a wedding dress with a little botox and the right make up." Then she turned out the light and walked back to the bedroom to dress herself. She put on an expensive piece of lingerie and some thigh highs from Agent Provocateur. She used to wait for her boyfriend all the time wearing lingerie like this- however, even after slipping on her seven inch heels, the lingerie just didn't flatter her body the way it did when she was 27. Her boobs were beginning to sag, her arms had filled out on top and her hands were extremely veiny. She had vericose veins in her calves and her butt kind of sunk into her meaty thighs. Oh well- it was an effort at least. She poured herself a glass of champagne and waited around like this for about an hour for Max to return.
Max never returned though.
After an hour of waiting, she called him and his phone went straight to voicemail. She would go onto call him about 100 times that day, all the while telling herself that it must be some sort of elaborate effort on his behalf to surprise her for her birthday. Every last call, all 100 placed calls, went straight to voicemail. Finally, it was 9pm at night- Gemma was wasted, sobbing, had called every single mutual friend and acquaintance they shared to see if anyone might know of Max's whereabouts. No one knew. She thought about calling the police and placing a missing persons report, but in her heart she knew the truth. Max was gone forever. He had left her. Abandoned her like an old, mangy dog is abandoned, tied on the stake in the front yard where he spent his entire life, by a welfare family living in a trailer park upstate.
Gemma cried for 3 days straight. She had to have her now married girlfriends take turns coming over to spend the night with her. She was inconsolable. One night, about a week after Max left, Gemma finally decided to leave her apartment. Her girlfriends finally managed to convince her that a night on the town would be good for her. They had secretly wondered if it was good, given the fact that they didn't know if Max had jumped town, or there might be a possibilty of them seeing him. Sure enough, after a lovely dinner at a cozy French restaurant in the West Village, they decided to have a cocktail at the Standard. As they entered the premises, low and behold- there was Max. Gemma was the first to spot him. He was sitting on a leather couch with a leggy, blonde who couldn't have been any older than 23. Gemma lost it. She hauled ass across the roof top, as tears welled up in her eyes and her face gew hot with anger. "You fucking cock sucker! How could you do this to me? How could you leave me out of the blue with no explanation, no break up discussion, not even a fight??? On my birthday?!" She started to physically attack him and the whore sitting at his side. Her friends cheered her on, but security stepped in and pulled her off and quickly escorted her downstairs onto the street.
A month passed by, and Gemma received a phone call from a friend who was still friends with Max on Faecbook. She called to tell Gemma that Max was engaged to a girl named "Olysia Slavojenski" ... the same fucking cunt from the Standard! Gemma fucking lost it. In ten years of dating Max, they hadn't posted a single photo together on social media. He never would cater to her request to change his relationship status. It always seemed to Gemma as though she wasn't good enough or hot enough to be publicly in a relationship with given the bevy of other beautiful women that he was surrounded by on a daily basis. Now here he was, a couple months into an affair with a girl half his age, wife-ing her up and announcing it on facebook, complete with engagement photos and all.
Gemma couldn't even cry anymore. She did the next best thing she could think of and had a gang bang with about 4 young hipsters 10 years her junior. After she was done with that, she took a handful of painkillers and washed them down with a bottle of champagne. She climbed into the tub and cut her wrists. Sadly for Gemma, she didn't cut deep enough, nor were the painkillers a high enough dose to kill her in her sleep as she had prayed they would. Instead, she just vomited all over her bathroom and had the worst fucking hang over of her life. The next day she had to clean up the spots of blood all over her tub and order new towels since they were all covered in vomit and blood. Fuck this shit! She wanted revenge. Gemma hit up an old friend who was in the army and conned him into giving her his gun. She put on her seven inch heels, an expensive bandage dress, and hid the pistol in her purse. She went to the music venue where Max was set to play his first large NYC show, and waiting patiently for him to go on stage. Then she fucking Abe Lincolned his ass ass soon as he came out with his electric guitar. Then she fucking John Lennoned his fiance too. She ran out of the music venue and got hit by a taxi. She died.
The end.
Gemma was a far, far removed cry from the blown out blondes, with their anorexic fawn legs who pranced around the upper East side with their Chanel bags and their lash extensioned eyelashes. She was also a far cry from the tanned, toned, lip-filler filled gold-diggers hanging around Meat Packing. She was a long shot from the bony, cigarette smoking, diet coke guzzling models who hung out at VIP Room, and she didn't really fit in with the edgy scene kids taking molly every night and partying in Brooklyn either. Basically, it is safe to say that Gemma was, for lack of a better word, a reject. She was an outcast for as long as she could remember. Her friends were few and far between. As flawed as she was, Gemma somehow managed to find a very, very hot foreign boyfriend one summer. She wasn't sure why he liked her, or why he didn't abandon her after they slept together on the first date, but she couldn't believe that she would ever land such a hot bloke. The issue with this gentleman was however, that he was an up and coming rocker.
Yes, Gemma's boyfriend was out almost every night of the week playing gigs. When he wasn't playing at one of the city's coolest music venues, you could find him promoting at clubs like Tao Downtown, Avenue, Provocateur, and the rooftop at the Gansevoort. As I've previously stated, he was very hot, and very foreign, which meant that he was a target of women everywhere. Poor Gemma felt so inadequate every time she went to watch him play a show or went to one of the clubs he promoted at. She felt like a little, disheveled field mouse standing next to the waif like creatures who belonged to agencies like One Model Management, Elite, and Ford. She wondered if she starved herself for 3 months straight if she could even begin to come close to such ludacris levels of emaciation and beauty. She wondered if she shelled out 700 for a cut and color at Oscar Blandi if her hair might be even a quarter as immaculate as the gorgeous, Argentinian models with the waist-length brunette tresses doing lines in the corner of Electric Room. "Maybe if I get some botox I too can be beautiful," she thought to herself one night as she stared at her reflection in the bathroom of Electric room. Then she caught site of a group of blonde, Ukrainian models exiting the stalls behind her... "Maybe not," she sighed.
Poor Gemma. As the years went on, she only became increasingly ugly. There were fine lines around her lips and eyes when she smiled. Her lips thinned out, and her skin lost collagen. Her boyfriend's success grew, and even though he was not opposed to the idea of them getting married, he always kept it to, "some day, not now... but maybe someday I will want to." Well, I tell ya' kid- 7 years flies by pretty fucking fast in this cold-hearted town. Gemma was a young girl of only 25 when she had started dating Max... she might not have been a great beauty, but at that time, she was in good shape. Her skin hadn't aged due to stress, a diet high in Cheetos and coffee, and hormonal acne. She had a more positive outlook on life then, she had been hopeful for a bright future.
Seven years of being led-on with the false hope that marriage was in her future later, Gemma woke up one day and realized she was a 32 year old woman, with decaying looks, a burgeoning waist-line, and deteriorating hope that things would improve. Her boyfriend of seven years now had minor success in the music industry and was getting recognized by passerby on the street. Her boyfriend had been cheating on her for the past three years of their relationship. Every time that Gemma couldn't make it to a show due to her early-morning work schedule, he would end up going home with a bartender or a 22 year old Brazilian. She had tried to have "the talk" with him many times, which usually went something like this:
"Hey babe, I know that you don't want to get married right now, but you know, some day I do. I don't see why I should waste anymore of my time or these precious years with a person who doesn't want the same thing that I want. Should we even be together?"
His response was always the same:
"I TOLD YOU A MILLION TIMES!!! I don't want to get married now or ANYTIME SOON!!! Goddammit! Why do you always pressure me?! How many times have I told you???"
But the fact of the matter was, she didn't really know what his version of "anytime soon" meant anymore, seeing as how seven years together had past. Gemma knew she wasn't getting any younger. She certainly wasn't getting any prettier. She always said that she didn't want to wake up to find herself 34 and unmarried and here it was becoming her reality. She kept hanging on though because she loved him and didn't know what else to do at this point. She decided to give the relationship another couple of years.
And so it was that Gemma woke up one day at the ripe age of 35, unmarried, and having spent the past 10 years of her life loving a man who she knew wouldn't give her the future she wanted, cheated on her, and clearly didn't love her back. It was on her 35th birthday that she awoke, alone in bed. It was strange to wake up alone since Max almost always slept in later than her. She meandered out of the bedroom to the kitchen, to find a note on the table that read the following:
WENT OUT FOR SOME MILK...
-Max
"Hmmm," she thought to herself, "that's funny- Max usually sleeps in later than me and he doesn't even drink milk." Curious things began to cross her mind. "It must all just be an elaborate surprise for my birthday" she thought. Gemma decided that he must have forgotten to buy her a present, or perhaps had to run out for a card or something and that he would probably be returning shortly. She went into the bathroom and looked herself in the mirror to pretty up her face before he returned home. As she went to dab some concealer under her eyes, she observed herself. She was a far cry from the girl she had been at 25. She had dark circles under her eyes, crows feet at the corners. Her lips were thin and turned down at the corners. Heavy lines on either side of her mouth. Her skin was beginning to sag on her jowls, and her hair was spotted with about 30% whites now. She sighed, and thought to herself "Maybe this is the year- I can still look good in a wedding dress with a little botox and the right make up." Then she turned out the light and walked back to the bedroom to dress herself. She put on an expensive piece of lingerie and some thigh highs from Agent Provocateur. She used to wait for her boyfriend all the time wearing lingerie like this- however, even after slipping on her seven inch heels, the lingerie just didn't flatter her body the way it did when she was 27. Her boobs were beginning to sag, her arms had filled out on top and her hands were extremely veiny. She had vericose veins in her calves and her butt kind of sunk into her meaty thighs. Oh well- it was an effort at least. She poured herself a glass of champagne and waited around like this for about an hour for Max to return.
Max never returned though.
After an hour of waiting, she called him and his phone went straight to voicemail. She would go onto call him about 100 times that day, all the while telling herself that it must be some sort of elaborate effort on his behalf to surprise her for her birthday. Every last call, all 100 placed calls, went straight to voicemail. Finally, it was 9pm at night- Gemma was wasted, sobbing, had called every single mutual friend and acquaintance they shared to see if anyone might know of Max's whereabouts. No one knew. She thought about calling the police and placing a missing persons report, but in her heart she knew the truth. Max was gone forever. He had left her. Abandoned her like an old, mangy dog is abandoned, tied on the stake in the front yard where he spent his entire life, by a welfare family living in a trailer park upstate.
Gemma cried for 3 days straight. She had to have her now married girlfriends take turns coming over to spend the night with her. She was inconsolable. One night, about a week after Max left, Gemma finally decided to leave her apartment. Her girlfriends finally managed to convince her that a night on the town would be good for her. They had secretly wondered if it was good, given the fact that they didn't know if Max had jumped town, or there might be a possibilty of them seeing him. Sure enough, after a lovely dinner at a cozy French restaurant in the West Village, they decided to have a cocktail at the Standard. As they entered the premises, low and behold- there was Max. Gemma was the first to spot him. He was sitting on a leather couch with a leggy, blonde who couldn't have been any older than 23. Gemma lost it. She hauled ass across the roof top, as tears welled up in her eyes and her face gew hot with anger. "You fucking cock sucker! How could you do this to me? How could you leave me out of the blue with no explanation, no break up discussion, not even a fight??? On my birthday?!" She started to physically attack him and the whore sitting at his side. Her friends cheered her on, but security stepped in and pulled her off and quickly escorted her downstairs onto the street.
A month passed by, and Gemma received a phone call from a friend who was still friends with Max on Faecbook. She called to tell Gemma that Max was engaged to a girl named "Olysia Slavojenski" ... the same fucking cunt from the Standard! Gemma fucking lost it. In ten years of dating Max, they hadn't posted a single photo together on social media. He never would cater to her request to change his relationship status. It always seemed to Gemma as though she wasn't good enough or hot enough to be publicly in a relationship with given the bevy of other beautiful women that he was surrounded by on a daily basis. Now here he was, a couple months into an affair with a girl half his age, wife-ing her up and announcing it on facebook, complete with engagement photos and all.
Gemma couldn't even cry anymore. She did the next best thing she could think of and had a gang bang with about 4 young hipsters 10 years her junior. After she was done with that, she took a handful of painkillers and washed them down with a bottle of champagne. She climbed into the tub and cut her wrists. Sadly for Gemma, she didn't cut deep enough, nor were the painkillers a high enough dose to kill her in her sleep as she had prayed they would. Instead, she just vomited all over her bathroom and had the worst fucking hang over of her life. The next day she had to clean up the spots of blood all over her tub and order new towels since they were all covered in vomit and blood. Fuck this shit! She wanted revenge. Gemma hit up an old friend who was in the army and conned him into giving her his gun. She put on her seven inch heels, an expensive bandage dress, and hid the pistol in her purse. She went to the music venue where Max was set to play his first large NYC show, and waiting patiently for him to go on stage. Then she fucking Abe Lincolned his ass ass soon as he came out with his electric guitar. Then she fucking John Lennoned his fiance too. She ran out of the music venue and got hit by a taxi. She died.
The end.
Wednesday, July 1, 2015
Tuesday's gone
What inspired me to post this was today- just another fucking day in my life.
My life. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, my life is no longer a drama... it's pure comedy at this point... a comedy of errors. I am like a modern day Lucille Ball in a modern age version of I Love Lucy. I think my feet are broken from wearing heels all day and stomping around NYC in this 82 degree/90% humidity shithole. My face looks like a greasy pizza, spotted with a fresh breakout, because this is how Jesus likes to do me when I actuallywant need to look good (for the sake of NYC interviews). This is probably a direct result of all of the pizza I have consumed in the past week... I was off today and was supposed to have FOUR interviews... let me just tell you a little bit about how my day went. I hope that someone out there reading this can relate and realized they aren't the only fuck up just trying to get by in this cruel, cruel world.
The fourth interview of today was added yesterday afternoon. I got a call back from a blogging job I applied to with Rebelcircus.com/blog/ and I was super fucking stoked. As you all know (if you actually read this piece of shit blog) my main goal in life is to get paid to write. When I heard back from such a cool site, I was elated... I wasn't going to blow this opportunity. This is the first interview I've actually given a fuck about in a while. This is something coveted and something that is a step in the right career path for me. The guy who called me said he wanted to meet today (Tuesday) at 12 noon. Near the end of our phone convo, he confirmed my email address and said that he would send me the address of their offices and a confirmation via email. I had an extremely busy day at work yesterday and didn't really think twice about checking my email. This morning, however, when I woke up and still hadn't received an email detailing the interview address etc., I called the guy back. His phone went straight to voicemail so I left a generic "Hey, I never received the email yesterday that you were going to send with the address, so I was wondering if you could please let me know." This was a solid 2.5 hours before noon when I was due to meet him. I did the next feasible thing I could think of and google searched 'Rebel Circus NYC offices.' My search yielded what seemed an appropriate address, and so I figured 'Fuck it,' he said noon... I'll just fucking go since I found the address myself.
Long story short, I show up to a building on 37th street, go up to Suite 405, let myself in, and find a showroom with two very confused women working on assembling garments. One turned and asked "Can I help you?" at which point I realized this was a very different Rebel Circus than the one that I was looking for, and said "no, I think I have the wrong place" before quickly seeing myself out and booking it out of the building. I then did the next logical thing and google-searched "Rebel Circus" again. The next link I clicked on was the company's review on Glassdoor.com, and THIS is what I found... YIKES. Good fucking thing I didn't actually go to a real interview and accept a real job with them. I guess everything happens for a reason... right? RIGHT?!!!! Oh God... Please say it's so, there must be a reason for how shitty everything has been going despite my best efforts.... Please keep in mind this is the ONE interview I was supposed to have today that is actually one that will help me further myself in the way of how I'd like my ultimate career path to go. Total fucking bust. So after this, I only have a serious of hostessing/serving interviews to look forward to. Hey, at this point, I will take anything that pays my bills and gets me out of Mollister (aka. 666, aka, Hell on Earth).
So then I go home and change for my next few interviews, because the one hostessing job I have an interview for has specified that I should wear all black and heels. Ok, easy enough. I borrowed a black top from my sister since all of my black tops are slutty crop tops at this moment in time. The top is sleeveless and kind of tunic-y shaped with pleated black chiffon and a high neck with a key hole. I wear it with my skinny, cropped black chinos from the Gap and some fawn-colored platform sandals, and it looks fantastic. Even my boyfriend (who might as well be an Italian fashion critic) confirms it looks great. "Very classy" he says- to get his seal of approval is pretty hard. So I go to my next interview, a rooftop, and am basically handed the job. Then I go to Bryant Park to wait for my next interview, which happens to be at a very VERY, VERY upscale French restaurant right on the park that JUST opened. I walk in feeling confident. The place is fucking gorgeous. The interview seems to go well enough; we chat about the fact that I work for Mollister and he worked for the same company (as a model, no doubt in my mind). He asks me about my writing, etc. etc. I feel as though the interview has gone swimmingly. I walk out of the place confident as hell.
I am on my way to Highline to refresh my makeup before my last interview at 6pm. As I'm walking down 16th street, my hand grazes the hem of my shirt. Hmmm, "why does it feel so fucking heavy?" I think to myself. I explore the hem a bit more and feel elastic... then I realize it's a sleeve... a sleeve dangling down the side of my fucking "sleeveless" tunic shirt. WTF. I realize I actually have TWO sleeves, hanging on the inside of my tent-shaped shirt, and that the elastic bottoms of each sleeve are hanging out of either side of the shirt. HOLY FUCKING SHIT. Here I am thinking the shirt is sleeveless and thusly wearing it as such all damn day out in public, when in reality, it is a cold-shoulder/rennaissence type top with the sleeve that is supposed to start half way down my arm. I suddenly feel like a fucking idiot and wonder how many people have noticed, and if the dude from the last interview was actually smiling at me because I'm a complete fuck up who doesn't know how to dress herself. I sometimes wonder if I will ever be a real woman. Like, will I ever wake up with my shit together, money in the bank, a job that I like, and not have chipped nails, broken heels, acne on my face, and frizzy fucking hair? Or will I be a perpetual 14 year old- awkward as fuck and always unkempt in some way? Even when I look put together from afar, if you get close enough you'll see I have clumpy mascara, flyaway baby hairs, chipped nails/polish, stains on my shirt, two much concealer on a zit, etc. Why can't I be like one of those perfect, manicured ladies who lunch? I think even if I had all the money in the world I couldn't be that perfect because my body just wouldn't allow it. I think I'm a mess for a reason.
Oh well. This is my reality.
Update:
I did NOT get the job. :D :D :D :D
My life. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, my life is no longer a drama... it's pure comedy at this point... a comedy of errors. I am like a modern day Lucille Ball in a modern age version of I Love Lucy. I think my feet are broken from wearing heels all day and stomping around NYC in this 82 degree/90% humidity shithole. My face looks like a greasy pizza, spotted with a fresh breakout, because this is how Jesus likes to do me when I actually
The fourth interview of today was added yesterday afternoon. I got a call back from a blogging job I applied to with Rebelcircus.com/blog/ and I was super fucking stoked. As you all know (if you actually read this piece of shit blog) my main goal in life is to get paid to write. When I heard back from such a cool site, I was elated... I wasn't going to blow this opportunity. This is the first interview I've actually given a fuck about in a while. This is something coveted and something that is a step in the right career path for me. The guy who called me said he wanted to meet today (Tuesday) at 12 noon. Near the end of our phone convo, he confirmed my email address and said that he would send me the address of their offices and a confirmation via email. I had an extremely busy day at work yesterday and didn't really think twice about checking my email. This morning, however, when I woke up and still hadn't received an email detailing the interview address etc., I called the guy back. His phone went straight to voicemail so I left a generic "Hey, I never received the email yesterday that you were going to send with the address, so I was wondering if you could please let me know." This was a solid 2.5 hours before noon when I was due to meet him. I did the next feasible thing I could think of and google searched 'Rebel Circus NYC offices.' My search yielded what seemed an appropriate address, and so I figured 'Fuck it,' he said noon... I'll just fucking go since I found the address myself.
Long story short, I show up to a building on 37th street, go up to Suite 405, let myself in, and find a showroom with two very confused women working on assembling garments. One turned and asked "Can I help you?" at which point I realized this was a very different Rebel Circus than the one that I was looking for, and said "no, I think I have the wrong place" before quickly seeing myself out and booking it out of the building. I then did the next logical thing and google-searched "Rebel Circus" again. The next link I clicked on was the company's review on Glassdoor.com, and THIS is what I found... YIKES. Good fucking thing I didn't actually go to a real interview and accept a real job with them. I guess everything happens for a reason... right? RIGHT?!!!! Oh God... Please say it's so, there must be a reason for how shitty everything has been going despite my best efforts.... Please keep in mind this is the ONE interview I was supposed to have today that is actually one that will help me further myself in the way of how I'd like my ultimate career path to go. Total fucking bust. So after this, I only have a serious of hostessing/serving interviews to look forward to. Hey, at this point, I will take anything that pays my bills and gets me out of Mollister (aka. 666, aka, Hell on Earth).
So then I go home and change for my next few interviews, because the one hostessing job I have an interview for has specified that I should wear all black and heels. Ok, easy enough. I borrowed a black top from my sister since all of my black tops are slutty crop tops at this moment in time. The top is sleeveless and kind of tunic-y shaped with pleated black chiffon and a high neck with a key hole. I wear it with my skinny, cropped black chinos from the Gap and some fawn-colored platform sandals, and it looks fantastic. Even my boyfriend (who might as well be an Italian fashion critic) confirms it looks great. "Very classy" he says- to get his seal of approval is pretty hard. So I go to my next interview, a rooftop, and am basically handed the job. Then I go to Bryant Park to wait for my next interview, which happens to be at a very VERY, VERY upscale French restaurant right on the park that JUST opened. I walk in feeling confident. The place is fucking gorgeous. The interview seems to go well enough; we chat about the fact that I work for Mollister and he worked for the same company (as a model, no doubt in my mind). He asks me about my writing, etc. etc. I feel as though the interview has gone swimmingly. I walk out of the place confident as hell.
I am on my way to Highline to refresh my makeup before my last interview at 6pm. As I'm walking down 16th street, my hand grazes the hem of my shirt. Hmmm, "why does it feel so fucking heavy?" I think to myself. I explore the hem a bit more and feel elastic... then I realize it's a sleeve... a sleeve dangling down the side of my fucking "sleeveless" tunic shirt. WTF. I realize I actually have TWO sleeves, hanging on the inside of my tent-shaped shirt, and that the elastic bottoms of each sleeve are hanging out of either side of the shirt. HOLY FUCKING SHIT. Here I am thinking the shirt is sleeveless and thusly wearing it as such all damn day out in public, when in reality, it is a cold-shoulder/rennaissence type top with the sleeve that is supposed to start half way down my arm. I suddenly feel like a fucking idiot and wonder how many people have noticed, and if the dude from the last interview was actually smiling at me because I'm a complete fuck up who doesn't know how to dress herself. I sometimes wonder if I will ever be a real woman. Like, will I ever wake up with my shit together, money in the bank, a job that I like, and not have chipped nails, broken heels, acne on my face, and frizzy fucking hair? Or will I be a perpetual 14 year old- awkward as fuck and always unkempt in some way? Even when I look put together from afar, if you get close enough you'll see I have clumpy mascara, flyaway baby hairs, chipped nails/polish, stains on my shirt, two much concealer on a zit, etc. Why can't I be like one of those perfect, manicured ladies who lunch? I think even if I had all the money in the world I couldn't be that perfect because my body just wouldn't allow it. I think I'm a mess for a reason.
Oh well. This is my reality.
Update:
I did NOT get the job. :D :D :D :D
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