it's true her ego preceeds her half a mile.
on especially windy days, i can feel it seeping in through the double-paned windows on the south facing side of the house, its butt facing the ocean as if to say, i dare you. and, oh does she. she dares right through the tall window in the stairwell, the window behind the television, the window near the kitchen table that is too large to fit in the hole we call a kitchen. when she feels especially testy, she can even get it to snake around through the two doors leading to the porches, encouraging it to wisp into the house in full force, clouding up our living space with her.
the color of baby puke is how i see it, the middle portion most concentrated with her manner but the outer edges mostly just poluted with her little giggles, her looks, her hair flips, her stances. who would know that she has invested hours of her day into making sure she knows exactly how she looks when she does these movements? who would think that there is a mirror stationed near her computer, and one near her bedstand, and one near her closet, and then a full length one near her dressor... all on her side of a room that has to be shared with somebody with an equal ego? oh lordy lordy.
i once told her she was obsessed with herself. it occured to me that i am also obsessed with myself, completely tied up in all of life's little turns and leaving so little of my time to take in the turns other's lives are taking. but she just sat there, in my dorm room, right by the only place where a mirror sat ungaurded. she sat there and poluted my mirror with herself. i could see the ugly waves going into the mirror and i was so scared that it would be forever tainted with her that i would have to resort to using the mirror in my roommate's closet. she just sat there, giggling, as if to say, so what? i'm beautiful and every guy wants me in his arms, for at least one night...
and i have to wonder if this isn't a product of being the ugly girl, the girl that nobody noticed for years because of a strange smell or ratty hair or a crazy mother who didn't believe in teaching her child the value of tenderness. maybe it's the product of everyone whispering about her in middle school, of being friends with girls like Kelly and Jessica who use their beauty to keep girls like her and Erin mesmerized at their feet. perhaps.
but it doesn't change the fact that i can feel her from four blocks away.
on especially windy days, i can feel it seeping in through the double-paned windows on the south facing side of the house, its butt facing the ocean as if to say, i dare you. and, oh does she. she dares right through the tall window in the stairwell, the window behind the television, the window near the kitchen table that is too large to fit in the hole we call a kitchen. when she feels especially testy, she can even get it to snake around through the two doors leading to the porches, encouraging it to wisp into the house in full force, clouding up our living space with her.
the color of baby puke is how i see it, the middle portion most concentrated with her manner but the outer edges mostly just poluted with her little giggles, her looks, her hair flips, her stances. who would know that she has invested hours of her day into making sure she knows exactly how she looks when she does these movements? who would think that there is a mirror stationed near her computer, and one near her bedstand, and one near her closet, and then a full length one near her dressor... all on her side of a room that has to be shared with somebody with an equal ego? oh lordy lordy.
i once told her she was obsessed with herself. it occured to me that i am also obsessed with myself, completely tied up in all of life's little turns and leaving so little of my time to take in the turns other's lives are taking. but she just sat there, in my dorm room, right by the only place where a mirror sat ungaurded. she sat there and poluted my mirror with herself. i could see the ugly waves going into the mirror and i was so scared that it would be forever tainted with her that i would have to resort to using the mirror in my roommate's closet. she just sat there, giggling, as if to say, so what? i'm beautiful and every guy wants me in his arms, for at least one night...
and i have to wonder if this isn't a product of being the ugly girl, the girl that nobody noticed for years because of a strange smell or ratty hair or a crazy mother who didn't believe in teaching her child the value of tenderness. maybe it's the product of everyone whispering about her in middle school, of being friends with girls like Kelly and Jessica who use their beauty to keep girls like her and Erin mesmerized at their feet. perhaps.
but it doesn't change the fact that i can feel her from four blocks away.
posted by The Smart Pineapple at 10:09
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