My Looks Can Be So Deceiving
Looks can be so deceiving. They truly can be work of art when looked at one way and artistic madness when looked at another way. This is my life in a nutshell, according to me.
So, lately I have been finding myself looking at, not the glass half full or empty, but at my days and life from my perspective and then from someone else’s besides mine. What I have concluded is that I like my perspective much better than yours; so, therefore, yours is wrong. Can I do this? I don’t care and I am doing it anyway (and I am stomping my feet in my head here just for the dramatic effect).
When I live my day every day; I start with the fact that I am already funny (hilarious) and you are sitting with bated breath and just waiting for me to rise and entertain you. It is a very large and cumbersome weight on my shoulders, to be the one you count on for this, but, I will grin and bear it as my lot in life. Am I worried I will not succeed in your eyes and estimation? Noooo! with a scrunched up face, I say. Like that is a fear I have. Considering the crazy I have done in my life and able to recall it on demand these days, except for that missing marriage in the middle somewhere, and I don’t know if I will ever remember that one; and I am at a point of thinking that maybe he was just not memorable. Maybe it has nothing to do with fire and brimstone and Hell hath no fury; maybe he just wasn’t that great an anything to remember. I have decided that this is going to be my story and I am going to stick with it. Again, the visual in my head is me standing fast, feet dug in, and strong with this decision. The visual really does make the story come to life, doesn’t it? But I digress.
So, back to me, we go. Sometimes, just between you and I; I wish that you knew how to entertain as easily as I so that I would have to wear this cloak of entertainment and your dependence a little less. Oh, what am I saying; no one could do my job even remotely as well as me. Are you thinking I am conceited? I most certainly am not that ever. Well maybe just once in a while; oh Hell’s Bells; so I am conceited more often than not. But this is only in my head so it has no bearing on the part you get to play in my life; the ever observant and easily entertained audience member.
About now I can almost feel the bridle riding up your girth and you’re getting your panties in a knot; by the way, who told you to wear a bridle and a thong? Don’t get me wrong, it is definitely funny, but it was not me. My taste for you goes more along the line of chains and well-placed duct tape. And speaking of duct tape; isn’t it great that we can now get so many new choices for duct tape colors and patterns and uses and fixes? I love it. I take it to bed with me every night and the dreams I have of you and duct tape and a whole lot of patterns allow you to play any role in my dreams of ‘soft kitty, warm kitty, little ball of fur.’ Now, if that doesn’t give you nightmares; I am done.
And then there is the girl who drove away from her specialist appt a little while back having the thought that this nose surgery worked and was a success; what else can I get fixed now? The following comment to myself in the mirror was “Are you fucking retarded?’ I am not even kidding. Now, if I play that tape to the end, I have no idea what I was going to get fixed anyway. Seriously, make my eyes greener, my hair fuller, the stretch marks on my belly stretched into another incision or even the boob job I used to want. Okay, so picture this, a fifty-five almost fifty-six-year-old, with boobs magically hugging her neck instead of her knees; isn’t that the woman you want to sleep with? That is not even the woman I want to sleep with.
And then one day not too long ago I was walking to get my car after work and not paying attention because I was leaving a message for a friend and distracted. All of a sudden nothing looks familiar and I feel lost. I am being damn serious about this, too. The street my girlfriend lives on is a mere two turns from where I work and I got lost. What I see in front of me is a young girl walking towards me and I just really wanted to ask her ”Do you know where my car is?” However, I reigned in that thought and asked her the name of the street my car was parked on instead. But, for that pivotal moment, I really wanted to ask her the first question in my head. Afterwards, the more I relayed this event; the more I wished I had asked the first thought to mind.
Now let’s talk about who you are that I speak of in this little look at my life, the day to day. It is not a secret who you are, but you may or may not like it when I print your name; all one of you out there in my life attached to my apron strings. Seriously though, the you in my life that keeps a sharp and close eye on me each and every day is the same you who shake’s your head at most of my concocted ideas and thoughts. It is the same you who walks, talks, and sleeps with me every day and night.
It is myself of whom I speak. I bet you did not see that coming. Did that hit you right between the eyes, all of you out there sitting there hoping I both am and am not talking about you? But think about this for a moment and does it not make perfect sense? Why would my blog have anyone but me as the main character or leading lady, if you will? Breathe now people and rest easy that for today anyway, you were not the center of my amusement.
So, this is who I am, in a nutshell. And, I own it all: down to the very last nail. I am the one who can walk a mile or more in four-inch heels but give me sneakers and I trip on the concrete step and fall flat on my ass (Oh and scratch my knee and elbow quite well).
I am the one who is always just me; even though you think I have multiple personalities. I don’t; they are all just me and occasionally I let all of me out to play and then these are the events that take place. Aren’t you happy I don’t do it every day?
I am at the end of this piece and I hope you enjoy the read. As it is brought to you courtesy of me, myself, and I; we all hope you like, share, follow and even comment on my blog site.