You know that part in “Princess Bride” where the albino coughs out “the depths of despaaaaair”? That line has been in my head all day. That and “some I murder, some I let go.” At least the second line can be sung, and it helps to have music… in something… somewhere…
The depths of despair. I’m in them.
And then there’s this nonsense for when you need the world to make just a little less sense
1) Does this face look like the face of any woman you’ve ever known two months after giving birth (nsfw)?
2) Do these arms look like the arms of any woman you’ve ever known in any capacity ever?
3) This body. How is this body… existing? Where’s the justice? I know these people have all the time and money in the world and can just skip out on being normal people and devote countless hours and dollars to improving their appearance and I shouldn’t get too upset about it when it’s not really a level playing field.
But I can’t help it!
This just makes me angry. It makes me furious. It makes me want to scream and throw things! I hate this. And as much as I hate to say it, I’m really beginning to hate her, too. To hate all of them. Every last one.
I know I know– they’re “nice people,” “friendly,” “so down to earth for Hollywood,” blah blah blah. At this point: I Do. Not. Care. The world isn’t Hollywood. Stop teaching us to strive for and value only those things which are Un-real and not of ultimate importance anyway. Stop dangling unattainable perfection in front of us at every corner , all the while forcing the implication that it is not only possible but also necessary.
Boy I tell ya’– if that town burns down I will mourn the loss of the classic nostalgia pieces, and laugh with joy that the seat of this industry is in chaos. I know I know– I have friends who make their living off of this industry in different ways. But what they do isn’t “Hollywood.” It isn’t this nonsense. They make art, not “Naked Teenage Cheerleader Exhibitionist Lingerie Models Being Attacked by Equally Naked Lesbian Vampires With A Penchant for Busting Hip Hop Moves Before Attacking.” My friends don’t need Hollywood.
But then, with the direction things are going there: Who really does anymore?
The problem I have with being fed such a constant diet of people/images like this one of Alba, this one of Fox to the right (this is her after being instructed to gain 10 lbs…) is that it’s like– Okay. It’s like this:
It’s like eating strawberry flavored candy that has 10 x the strawberry taste of the real thing. You still like natural strawberries (especially if you can dress them up with sugar or chocolate or whipped cream…), but after a while even as good as they are they’re just not sweet enough to quench this desire you’ve cultivated for that intense, ultra-sweet, strawberry flavor. The candy contains traces of the real thing, sure. But it’s all so processed and there’s so much added to it that a real piece of fruit just doesn’t have, that you really can’t compare the two.
But that’s what happens with this glut of these people/images always before us. There’s so much that you can add into these people’s lives that you just can’t have with regular people- the heaps of sugar and the Red No. 3. But when we’re fed such a constant, steady diet of the way they are, the way they behave, look, dress, talk– we think it’s attainable because they’re human and we’re human and we’re told we’re all equal so… But the similarities end there. We *can’t* be like them. Men are told to want them, women are taught to want to be them. But it’s impossible.
I’m afraid I will never be loved for being a real strawberry. For something else I “really” am? Sure. But for being a real strawberry? Seems less likely every time another celebrity bounces back post-partum.
And I feel bad for every last person who can’t enjoy real strawberries any more, because I know they’re still good, no matter how sweet (eye)candy can be.
Enough already. Enough empty shaking of fists. It’s just a front, isn’t it? Isn’t it always.
You know what the problem really is? The problem really is that I want things in my life to start working, and my greatest fear is that everything that isn’t working, that everything that’s falling apart is falling apart because of me. Because of something I’ve done. Or something I’ve neglected to do. Like everything’s crashing and it’s all my fault. My big, fat, lazy, selfish, narcissistic, stupid, guilty fault.
ETA: I’ve gotten a surprising amount of feedback on what was intended to just be a nice, blow-off-loads-of-steam little rant, but most of it in the form of private messages from guys ‘n’ gals of all ages and backgrounds on Facebook so I’m the only one getting to enjoy the incredibly beautiful, hope-inspiring, and utterly refreshing sentiments these little notes contain. But to each of you who’s voiced their opinions on these topics- you guys rock, and it should be little wonder why I call you each a friend. :)