September 1st, 2002 - 1.32 am
So when your ‘date’ says to you “OK, well, I’m going to go hook up with some pretty girls now” what do you do?
I know I’m not anyone’s idea of a pretty girl. I live in my body every single day. I know that I am not what America demands from their women. I know that I’m not desireable.
But heaven help me, when this friend of mine, who’d agreed to go to the wedding as my ‘date’ told me OK, he was going to go find some pretty girls to hook up with, I wanted to throw up. It kept echoing in my head “Pretty girls pretty girls pretty girls.” And then my mind screams “Meaning not you. You don’t qualify as one of those pretty girls. He’s gone off to find someone, anyone, because it’s got to be better than you.”
I was the DJ at this wedding. I did have to pay a lot of attention to the music and when songs were ending and what to play next, I know. But “I’m going to go hook up with some pretty girls now” wasn’t “I’m going to go say hello to some people,” it was “You’re not what I want. I’m not going to respect you or our friendship enough to stick around or even talk to you I’m going to go hook up with some pretty girls.”
I keep coming back to that. Pretty girls. I try to be someone I like. I try to be friendly, and nice, and intelligent, and responsible, and sometimes I wonder, if I’m trying to be all of these things to compensate. Maybe if I’m super nice, people won’t think of me as what I really am. That ugly girl. That fat girl. That girl I wouldn’t touch with a ten foot pole. Maybe if I’m super-responsible, employers won’t look at me and be disgusted, and I’ll actually get a job. No matter what, I won’t ever be a pretty girl, someone that people are naturally drawn to or that they just naturally want to be around. No matter what I won’t be the girl guys look for to dance with at weddings. I won’t be the girl guys ask out. I try to disappear when I’m out with people I don’t know. I try to disappear in classes, I’d rather people not think about me at all than remember me for my physical appearance.
And how could someone who claimes to be my “Friend” say something like that to me? It wasn’t just that. After the wedding, people came back to my place and EC rented Blade. Blade is bloody and gross. I don’t like bloody movies. I don’t like scary movies, and this so called friend always makes fun of me because of it. Why does that make me a bad person? Why does that make me less of a human being because I don’t like blood or violence? Because I don’t like to be scared? I don’t know. I don’t know why this “friend” thought he could treat me this way.
And now I’m sitting home alone, crying, wishing I were someone else, anyone else, wishing that I could be just for a little while, someone else.
