the unattainable tastes so much sweeter, or so i imagine.

it is so difficult, just being a girl. i know, i know, yet another rant about the ideals society has given us gals that we cannot possibly live up to, yada yada yada.

it's so much effort making yourself beautiful. myself beautiful. sure i could go out in just a t-shirt and jeans, but blame the media, blame my parents, blame whoever the fuck you want, i don't feel good when i go out like a heap of trash. not the sexy, slutty kind of trash, the i've been at work all day, and yes, it is too much effort to change and put makeup on kind of trash.

it's so much effort just to be adequate, to be mediocre, to be mundane and bland. a million girls look exactly like me, ignore the fact that they're probably just getting their driver's licensees.

no i don't feel like shaving my legs, or under my arms.
no i don't want to style my dirty hair to fool people into thinking it's long and luscious and touchable.
no i don't want to put on makeup, hell i don't even want to wash my face.

but i'm going to. because for whatever reason, i have to. not because anyone is making me, but because i delude myself into thinking i won't feel guilty and disgusting for eating all the crap i've had today, or to fool myself into thinking for just a minute that i might, in fact, defy the laws of beauty and be beautiful based on my own predetermined set of guidelines.

no, i will go put some fucking make up on, squeeze back into a pair of jeans, and have a good time.
i'll have a good time, god damn it, because i need to.
because i have to.

Here we are again,

this is yet one more pseudo-secret blog, just one of many i've created since i was an unjustifiably cynical 16 year old. the stories are different, the minor characters have changed, and yet here i am.
here i am, creating yet another place for secrets, for half-truths, for thoughts i refuse to let pass from my mind through my mouth.

part of me is tired. part of me is sick. part of me is insecure. a big part of me is insecure, actually. part of me is broken. part of me doesn't want to be fixed. part of me wants to hold these thoughts and feelings around me, like a barbed wire coat.

i can't hold it in. everyone says so. 'let it out, tell us what's wrong, what can we do to help'
i can't let it out-not all the way.
i can't explain what's wrong, i can't exactly pinpoint it myself.
there's nothing you can do to help.
and even if there was, i'm too proud for help anyway.

so i'll sit here, and i'll write.
and i'll bitch. and i'll moan.
i'll fill these proverbial pages with what i can't, won't, refuse to let loose into the world.

because once you put something it out in the universe, there's no taking it back from her.