RANT

Oh baby, its rant time.

Sometimes it’s difficult to remember that for actresses, tv personalities, models, and even singers being gorgeous is part of the job. There are whole teams of people assigned to making sure that they look good. Nutritionist tell them what to eat, trainers tell how to exercise, dermatologists make their skin flawless, makeup artists make their skin more flawless, photo shop artists make their skin even more flawless (not to mention make their tits look bigger, their waist look smaller, and plethora of other alterations), and the photography team makes sure all their equipment erase any other ‘imperfections’.

My body is perfect. With maybe the exception of a slight chemical imbalance in my brain, it does everything it is supposed to do, and it does it all without me consciously having to tell it to. Blood circulates, wounds heal, nose hair filters, and my body is functionally perfect. So why can’t I just be grateful and enjoy that I have this high tech, brilliant piece of machinery at my disposal to carry around my sentient, conscious self? It’s the sentient, conscious self that prevents me from just being grateful. The thing that makes me human prevents me from appreciating my perfect body, which is kind of ironic because it’s that human part that allows me to be aware that it should be appreciated. Did that make anyone else dizzy?

You may be thinking ‘Devon, I enjoy your blog, but where the fuck are you going with this? Last week you said you were going to talk about makeup. I’m confused. You haven’t even said fucking this or fucking that yet.” Well first of all fucking fuck. Second of all, I lied, makeup will come later. And third, I need to get this out of me, off my chest, out the door, and if possible on a rocket to the fucking moon.

I got my fucking period this week and I was PMSing like mad. I ate an entire chocolate shop (including the poor sales girl), I listened to so much Cake that I wondered if any relationship ever works out, I projectile vomited, I gained weight, and I felt so fucking insecure that it lead to some very poor decisions on my part as well as several fits of uncontrollable crying. Luckily, I was able to keep being mean to a minimum, or at least to other people. I was very, very mean to myself. If I could bruise from mentally beating myself up; I would be blacker and bluer than if I was pushed down a couple of flights of stairs followed by being run over by an elephant.
I am told I am a confident woman. I feel more confident now than I ever have before. I don’t take shit anymore. I tell people to fuck off when they put me down or get in my space or whatever and once in a while I hit them when they don’t listen. But fuck me, I felt so shitty this week that I could have been convinced to join a cult and drink the Kool-Aid that will send me to utopia. I felt so broken. I felt fat, ugly, old, stupid, dull, and bitchy, I was drawn into this perpetual cycle of being not good enough. I felt like everyone knew that I wasn’t good enough but that they hung around me because there was nothing better to do (note to anyone who feels this way 24/7, see a doctor. You might be depressed.).

I convinced myself that my editor wanted to edit for someone else even though he’s never said or done anything to suggest he felt that way, aside from comment on the attractiveness of another writer. I am so fucking aware that someone else being attractive doesn’t make me unattractive. I find so many men and women really fucking hot. I have a mad crush on Nathan Fillion and I would give Amanda Palmer tongue any day of the week but that doesn’t diminish my (purely professional) attraction to my super sexy editor. And yet, I felt like he wanted to work for this other girl instead. I started looking top ten sexiest women lists and comparing myself to them and I kept coming up short. It compounded until in my stupidity and insecurity I asked my editor if he thought I actually needed to lose weight. He said yes. And I shut down. In his defense, he reminded me that losing weight is part of this blog, and that I seem happier when I weigh a bit less. Also he didn’t know what had been going through my head because I hadn’t told him. He didn’t mean I was fat. He didn’t mean I wasn’t sexy. He didn’t mean that he didn’t find me attractive. But in my head, all those things came rushing at me. So I hid in my almost dark room and belly danced until I didn’t feel like crying anymore.

What’s the fucking point of my story? It is that I have this belief that women are conditioned to be insecure. It might be an evolutionary thing. We must look better than our sisters so that we can get the best seed to secure our legacy. It might be a capitalist economical thing. If we are happy with our selves then we won’t need to buy things to make us better. It might be the media creating a need to fill. If we don’t need someone to tell us how to be then all those tv make over show hosts, entertainment gossipers, talk show hosts ect would be out of work. It may be everything combined. It may all be fucking bullshit. But using other women as a measuring stick needs to stop because there will always be someone thinner, pretty, bustier, flatter, and curvier out there and the insecurity will always be there. It will work its way through the cracks and fuck up your life. You need to love your fucking body all the fucking time because without it, you’d just be a brain in a jar. As soon as I figure out how to do this, I will let you know. I love my body 84.7% of the time. I know that everyone needs to be down occasionally to experience the good but not loving my body shouldn’t be part of that. There’s enough crap in life to be depressed about it, my perfectly functional body should/ will not be part of that crap.

That being said, I’m not giving up. I’m continuing with my blog and this project. But at the end of the day, my primary concern is that I’m going to do what is best for me physically and mentally. So if I need to eat a fucking cookie, stand naked in front of a mirror and love/ appreciate the way I look right now, then I will. And if a week after I eat that cookie I regret it when I’m looking at a picture of Meagan Fox, I’m going to tell her to lick my clit and love that I have a fabulous, fat filled pair of knockers.

Sexy is what I say it is, and damn I’m a sexy chick.

Next week is makeup, no for real this time.

Kisses
D.D.