Don’t feel like working on anything that I would not recall doing once I’m off this bloody period. Things have to stick for them to be worthwhile you see. I even forgot how to spell “worthwhile”, worthwell was what I was writing down. It made sense as my thinking went, worthwell. Except it’s not a word of course. What’s a word anyway.
This girl who was my high-school classmate lingers in my mind for some reason. We were not friends. She was too pretty for me. She’s too pretty to have any friend really. She’s so pretty that her face was in the illustrated book for our art class. It’s not just for our school either. And there’s a curious phenomena of that particular picture of her smiling face being cut out from the book as we received our hand-me-down books.
Her face stuck with me, and how unhappy that face usually looked. She used to cry in the girls’ bathroom. I tried to comfort her, pretending to know what she’s going through. But it might just be jealousy. Jealous at how boys would stop in their tracks and gaze at her as she walked by. Jealous at how teachers would be extra strict with her. Jealous at her opportunity to represent the school for a radio contest. But she was not happy, she did not have friends. On that, we did relate. I hope she’s very happy now. She’s smart, she’d have it figured out.
I don’t do makeup because I’ve learned that attentions are usually bad. I don’t dress in skirts either, for several reasons. One, you have to watch how you move and sit. Two, it leaves me feeling vulnerable. Three, it’s not period friendly. What’s the reason for wearing skirts then? Freedom I suppose. For me it’s always been a luxury to indulge in now and then. Maybe I’m overthinking things, I’m always overthinking things. Call it a habit.
Oh, yeh, makeups. I don’t quite understand why people would want to wear makeups. They smell good maybe. It’s a form of self-expression I suppose. But I suspect a lot of women wear makeup as a form of deterrence. It made them appear, and probably feel more confident by making themselves looking perfect and ready for battle. I wonder if that’s the way to go actually. My mother asks me why I don’t wear pretty dresses and my mother-in-law says I should wear some lipsticks and blush. I myself am not sure. I’m rather just who I am: unsure, un-remarkable, unnoticeable, already a fake, and too tired to pretend otherwise. Maybe I’m still doing it wrong? As the flow goes.