The Trouble with Being White

Okay, I probably already pissed off a bunch of people with that innocent little five-word title. Yes, yes, you’re right, being white is generally a cakewalk. People don’t yell racial slurs at you, and you aren’t given less of a shot at job interviews, and people don’t have a whole category of jokes about you based off of untrue stereotypes. I fully concede that being white is not tough, even for me, who is almost-totally white but still has a dash of Native American.

But. We honkeys will never, ever, ever┬ábe as beautiful as the rest of the world. I’m sorry, but it’s true. Sure, there are total knockouts who happen to be white, but then you compare them with someone who’s half-Cuban and half-Chinese and you’re like, “Sorry, Casper, but they’ve got you beat.” People with non-white heritage, especially those lucky ducks with a whole melting pot of it, are just stunning.

Take my girl Signe here, who’s Swedish and African.

Now, if you’re white and reading this and thinking, “Bitch, I am beautiful,” I’m sure you are! But you’re not exotic and you’re going to age terribly if the sun has ever touched your skin. I know, I feel it too. We can go get Botox together in twenty years to maintain our gorge levels.

See, I am from a tiny little podunk farm town, and everyone is white. Then I went to college in a city, and people were less white and lots of them were annoyingly beautiful. Then I went to an even bigger city, and almost threw up because everyone was so drop-dead gorgeous I felt like a sack of pasty potatoes. Everyone in that city is a quarter Jamaican, half Indian, one-eighth African, and the rest fairy dust, from the looks of it. People who have mixed heritage seem to automatically get the most stunning parts of each ancestry and then some.

So, yes, whiteys are totally unfairly privileged, but we will never be the hottest. C’est la vie.

I Hate Your Face

Have you ever been dating someone, and you either don’t really care for them or you’re falling out of love, and all you can see are their flaws? One day they’re handsome and charming, and the next day you squint at their face in total disgust and think, “Well, fuck me, you’re positively revolting!”

That’s mean, I know. But I can’t help it. My first serious boyfriend and I were that awful couple that never loved each other at the same time, so for the first year of our relationship I ignored him and flirted with every Tom, Dick, and Harry who smiled in my direction (which, let’s be honest, is a lot of Toms and Dicks). And then I finally started to like him as much as he liked me, and then BAM, he wasn’t feeling it as much, and then we both were matched in our misery and broke up. Boo-hoo, it happens, life goes on.

But let me tell you, during that year, all I could see was his Stupid Ugly Face. Due to the virtue of our locations I only saw him once a week, less if I could avoid him, but his mug was still a horrible shock whenever it came swimming into view on our weekly rendezvous. He had these horrid–tiny, miniscule, possibly the size of an atom–white dots near his eyes. And a giant nose that probably weighed 700 pounds. And his pores, his pores! His stupid rough hair and by GOD was his smile unpleasant, and why did his nostrils flare when he BREATHED?

You get the idea. I would literally sit in his crumbly apartment and stare at his face with confusion. But I guess this makes sense, because I didn’t really care for him and I had tried to dump him and blahblahblah.

The real problem lies in that I do this with everyone. Yeah, you heard me. Everyone. Close friends and my current beau get a pass, because my heart is fully of warm squishy feelings for them and therefore my brain cannot produce enough hatred to formulate mean thoughts about them. But strangers? Oh holy FUCK do I scrutinize you.

It’s not that I mean to. I fully realize what a shallow bitchbag I sound like, and in the interest of fairness, I do it to myself too. I could stand in front of the mirror with professional makeup on and just think about my face until I’ve magically morphed into a drooling, deformed troll. Blame the media or fashion magazines (or, if you want, my keen and observant eye) but it’s like looking at words and trying not to read them: your brain just does it. At least, my bitchbrain does.

So you know how your acquaintance asks if the hideous pimple on their face is noticeable, and you say no, because maybe you didn’t even look? Yeah, well, I saw it. And since I’m as sweet as apple pie, I won’t say a thing, but holy God is that a zit. And as for you, I see those bags under your eyes and the lint on your sweater and that weird tooth and the place by your jaw where the foundation isn’t blended right. But weirdly, I still think you–and most everyone, even after my brain rips them to shreds–is beautiful! It’s a rare gift. (Now fix that foundation, gorgeous.)

Chicken (Bawk, Bawk, Bawk!)

Hey, you! You walk around all day like you are a normal, stable person and maybe even own a car and a blazer, but guess what? You are hiding some totally lame secret fear. And if you’re not careful, it might crawl out from underneath your bed and eat you. Think about that while you drive around in your blazer, Mr./Mrs. “Well-Adjusted”!

Hmm, I’m not really sure where I was going with that. My introduction kind of ran away with me. But this post is about Things That Scare You! Or, you know, Things That Scare Me, because you’re not writing this post (but you can totally write 18 comments about how you sleep with a nightlight and a teddy bear and a knife because you’re afraid of the Boogeyman, if you’re so inclined).

I am scared of barking, snarling dogs. I love dogs, but I have an atypically high number of friends with horrible facial scars from doggies biting them (okay, only 2 scarface friends, but still). You can’t come back from that shit.

I am also afraid of people who follow me, because as gorgeous as I am, I am afraid they’re going to pull something terrible out of their pants and try to put it inside me, such as a knife (see what I did there?).

I am afraid of clowns. When I was little, I was at a carnival thing inside a big circus tent, and we were sitting high up in the back. I was grooving on all the trapeze artists and the big fat elephants, and then I turned around the way you always do when you can feel someone looking at you, and who was there? A clown. A tall, scary, unsmiling clown, staring me dead in the eyes. You can’t come back from that shit either.

This post is pretty boring. I am boring myself just writing it. But I haven’t posted anything in a few days and I know my sexual little readers will just DIE without some new material. So, here you go. Hopefully something interesting will flit into my brain and then I can entertain you all instead of talking about my bad childhood clown experiences.

The New, New Sexy?

There is this really awkward battle that all magazines seem to be waging about what is sexy. Splashed across every Cosmo and Vogue are “sexy secrets” and tips on how to look sexy this season and blah blah blah. That’s good. That’s great! I love sexiness, and advice about how to have more of it is always A-OK with me.

But. I’m just saying, I think somewhere in the past forty years or so, what actually constitutes “sexy” has changed. For the worse. Take a look at this month’s Runner’s World‘s cover girl, for instance.

Now, before you get all up in arms saying that Runner’s isn’t a fashion magazine and isn’t touting sex appeal and you break a key from slamming on your laptop so hard, relax. I fully and totally agree with you, but I am just using that as one of many examples of how the standard of what looks good has changed. The editors at Runner’s picked someone they obviously thought was attractive and had a good, fit body. Similarly, Miss Wintour’s bella counterpart threw Karlie Kloss in her latest edition of Italian Vogue, and she might not have the jogger’s creepy six-pack, but she is one hell of a string bean.

OKAY. So now we have established that people–specifically, media moguls, since most guys I know would still rather date a curvy girl than a stick–today find no-waisted, four-pounds-and-fit girls attractive, but for the love of God, what about the fine felines of the 50s and 60s? What happened to my girl (as ever) Brigitte Bardot? What about everyone’s favorite sexpot, Marilyn Monroe? Betty Grable? Sophia Loren? Anita Ekberg? I mean, I fully admit that I have a total love for all things vintage, and that includes the way-sexier, thirty-thousand-times-more-appealing stars of the past, but come on. Scroll up and look at Ms. String Bean, and then have a gander at BB here. (Ooh, I just realized, it’s KK vs. BB!)

Right? Right. Brigitte (and Marilyn, and Betty and seemingly every other famous lady in the past) had a waist and hips and breasts and didn’t look like you could draw her body by tracing a ruler. If I’m not mistaken, most people don’t find rulers sexy. All I’m saying is that I think Ye Olden Days had a higher class of woman–sexier, better-dressed, and all-around more attractive than the stabby-boned/overly-toned celebrities who are popular now. And I miss it, and fuck all of you, I’m going to wear vintage skirts and Bardot eyeliner until the end of time.

*Disclaimer: 1.) There is nothing wrong with being skinny. I know plenty of girls who are not naturally born with curves and could eat a horse and still be Ruler Girls. Not their fault, and it doesn’t mean they’re ugly. But…I’m just saying, I’d take Brigitte Bardot’s body over theirs any day. 2.) There are plenty of curvy, gorgeous women today, but to be frank, I don’t really trust that 90% of them are REAL in the Age of Implants. To the other 10%, kudos.

Leopard-Print Sex Shoes

Don’t be shocked, but I’m going to post a picture of shoes and ramble on about how much I want them. Oooohhh, these shoes are sooooo great, I love them sooooo much, pleaseeee someone buy them for me.

No, but seriously, go to the store, buy those, and mail ’em on over.

Shoegasm

There once was a little old woman who lived in a shoe. But clearly she had a bad real estate agent, because she could’ve been living inside of these divine heels instead:

I mean, seriously. I want to wear these everywhere. I want them to run down the beach and leap into my arms. I want to put them on and jump around on bubble wrap. I want to curl up into a tiny little ball and sleep in them. I want them to pop out of a birthday cake seductively. Mostly, though, I just want them all over my feet.

I’m not sure if you People of the Internet got this, but I love these damn shoes.