My birthday is in 6 days.
I turn the ripe old age of 27.
beauty is only skindeep
this is a crock of shit.
When Justin and I were dating, we would constantly get into big arguments because his style of dress was anything that was clean: ratty old tshirts and crotchless shorts. When we would go out, it was a long never ending argument that I wanted him to DO SOMETHING with himself. And he would, eventually, begrudgingly put on a pair of dress shorts and decent shirt. and by this time, after i had primped and gotten beautified, i was pissed.
Justin and I spent so much time arguing about this. I couldn’t make him understand that part of having confidence was just the fact that you feel that you look your best. His argument was that if I loved him, I would love him regardless of what he wore. And i wanted that to be true, but lets face it, I’m a snobby bitch. I want someone who looks good, at least in my eyes. I want someone that when I look at, I want to pounce. I want someone who /cares/ about how they look. i tried, really, really hard to not make this an issue, but I couldn’t help it. I felt guilty because it felt like i was being shallow — but when i talked to other people about this little problem, they assured me I wasn’t. Part of feeling good about yourself is how you dress and thus how you present yourself to the world. I’ve always made the correlation that on days when I’m feeling less than good about myself, it’s mainly having to do with how i look. Now honestly, no ones other opinions do matter other than your own — and this was justins biggest argument to me. That if he was comfortable and felt comfortable with himself, why was I making a big deal? The problem was that I knew (because he told me often enough) that he wasn’t comfortable with himself. He would bitch about the weight he gained and then go eat. Or lie on the couch. His lack of motivation, passion and drive drove me nuts. (Intoxicated by your aggression, I offer you my one possession). The arguments would subside and sooner or later would start all over again. This is one of the reasons why I never wanted to do anything with him: he didn’t feel the need to put on anything other than this icky orange t-shirt that was nearly a rag and icky shorts. I would spend the time getting beautiful and I felt like I was going out with my brother. Hell, even my brother had style. He loves Nautica. He takes somewhat good care of himself. He has pride in how he looks.
And i don’t want to hear about how being prideful is sinful or whatever lame argument that is presented. Cos you know what bub? No one is gonna give a shit but yourself. It’s true. Only you and you alone can make the changes and become what you are.
okay, i diverting from the subject.
back on track lisa! whip!
and so it’s much later.
today consisted of me bolstering peoples ego, helping friends out and sitting on my fat ass all damn day. justin and i had gotten into a huge argument earlier this afternoon because i had wanted him to help around the house. many may remember months ago when i had spoken of this very same subject: the plan was devised of a chart of which days on who does chores. This helped out for awhile and then we broke up and we both slide down the hill. For awhile I hadn’t cared much because the house wasn’t falling into the pit of despair it once was — but looking back now i realize i just accepted it for what it was. But I’m fucking annoyed with it. I’m tired of picking things up. So i attempted to rouse Justin’s ass off the couch and he picked a fight with me. And we were arguing in the bathroom and he backed me up against the wall and yelling at me — and i told him he was scaring me. he knows not to yell at me and he commented “don’t worry, I’m not gonna hurt you” — and even if it WERE true — I just felt so damn defenseless standing there.
living with men suck.
i had this long diatribe in my head about beauty and how we appreciate it and i find that now that the day is gone, so am i.
for your amusement however, you may download one of the following: