I gave each book a solid 20 pages to grab me. The first was arrogantly written; Superfluous as Ayn Rand spending 20 pages on the description of a room. Awkward characters exchanging awkward dialogue. As Dorothy Parker once said, “It is not a book to be tossed aside lightly. It should be thrown with full force.” On to the second book, written by another one of my favorite people, Jenny McCarthy. Unfortunately her charm and wit was not reflected in print. NOt a coherent book but a smattering of random thoughts and “Oh, hey, lemme tell you about this one time…” Even an entire chapter dedicated to un-funny anecdotes about how heavy her period is. I didn’t so much as crack a smile the first 20 pages. The typeset was enormous; insultingly so. My IQ leaked slowly out of my eyes as I scanned the pages. Twenty pages, full stop. Enough.
I lie in the dark and my mind wanders to a full pair of lips as my hand wanders down to my thighs. I”m as thankful for my vibrator as I am tired of it. I want the real thing. I want Hottie McHottie. I want that tall, muscled, beautiful man with the tousled hair and mischievous green eyes. And he is beautiful. I go out of my way not to look at him. He would absently flatten his hair then muss it up only to flatten it again. I opened my mouth and said something about his “douche-y Euro-trash hair”. He genuinely looked hurt and I wanted to blurt out, “What that really translates to is ‘I want to ride your dick all night’.”Later he emailed me and I took the opportunity to apologize. And offered to give him a haircut. (which translates to “…and ride your dick all night.”)
My self-confidence is directly proportional to my weight. The higher the weight, the lower my self-confidence. I am 20 pounds away from seducing anyone and 30 pounds away from being an unstoppable force of wantonness. Or maybe I’m like my dog chasing a squirrel: woudn’t know what to do with it if I caught it. I was beautiful for a minute. Only a minute. So brief that by the time I realized I was beautiful, the moment had passed. I feel cheated. Now I google things like “fillers”, ‘chin lift’, and “fertility preservation”. I’m convinced my lips are receding faster than a shoreline in a hurricane. My biggest fear is becoming my mother. Not what she was but what she is now.Can we really fight genetics?
As Jenny McCarthy would say, “Why worry about answers to questions you can’t POSSIBLY know?” (Yes, I picked the book back up).
Now, Mr. McHottie, where were we…?