Dracula, Dresses & The Lifestyle to Which I am Accustomed

I have had the opportunity to watch a lot of television. I have had the opportunity to look at a lot of people in a lot of bad dresses. It's a bit of a blur since I was doing the recuperation thing, but some of the dresses were like alarm clocks, causing me to rise up from the couch, and cough a lot. I suppose that's the intention. I like how they say 'Nicole is wearing Eve,' to refer to a designer, as if there is an actual person draped over the celebrity. We could also drape a celebrity over another celebrity. I'd like to see one of the super-skinny ones, maybe Calista Flockhart, although I really have no idea what she does now (I know who she does, but that's different), draped over a genuine beauty with a female figure - Queen Latifah, for example - like a stoll around her neck. Queen Latifah would be in her glory, and when she took Calista off, she could just drape her over her chair.

Dontcha just adore a great dress? On my 35th birthday I thrifted a stunning red vintage piece that was velvet and snug and silk - off my shoulders. The little darts were too high for my tits, but I kinda nudged them up and no one seemed to notice. I inhaled the attention like so many chocolate-covered cherries: easily, graciously. "Thank you," I smiled. Internally, of course, I was cramming it in like a Big Mac after 3 weeks on the island. Yes, I am still hot. Yes, I am a beauty. Yes, I am still about as superficial as they come. And the most important: can I really sit down in this thing without busting the back zipper?

How politically abhorrent, you say! I thought this woman was a feminist, or at least progressive. I am, I am, but I gotta be me. An entire childhood of adult appraisal regarding one's face does not create a balanced self-image. This is not to say it was hard, but merely to say it is the lifestyle to which I was accustomed. And most days I can only accustom myself up to good-enough-to-present- one's-self-at-work. Going out at night, however, draws the vanity back in, as if Dracula vamps a bite as the sun sets and I am re-obsessed with the face and the dress.

The ball and chain, well, he does not accommodate. At all. Why, it's as if he married me with a blindfold on. In fact, at the above-mentioned party, another man had to tell him to tell me that I looked good. I may have complained about this before. Nevertheless, Ball & Chain is a fool, a withholding manipulator, and I think he should tell me how pretty I am.

But back to the dresses. Teri Hatcher was wearing something akin to Fleetwood Mac's early days, and Madonna is now attempting to out-bizarre Michael Jackson. I can't see her face. I can see something, but the components don't match. I cannot recognize Susan, and I wouldn't seek her, desperately or otherwise. There were some others, and if you visit Go Fug Yourself, you will see the fugliest there, plus have a good laugh.

Perhaps I should go write some journal entries about my warped self-image. No, I think other people can judge me for my warped self-image. I'm going to go buy valentines, and perhaps some chocolate-covered cherries.