Let me be the first to jump on the bandwagon (*definitely not the first) to say that I am not perfect. I think unless you’re written into a story, no one is. I’m sure even Beyonce has snarted even once. I continue to fail at little things in my day to day life, and that’s OK. I refuse to succeed at everything. I will probably be that person at the high school reunion who turns up already drunk and hits on the straight guys I had crushes on in my youth, but hey, at least I didn’t have a dumpster baby.
I keep having this ridiculous conversation with people which inevitably turns into a ridiculous argument with people about how to describe upcoming days of the week in relation to the inclusion or not of the word ‘next’.
Stay with me here.
One’s monobrow is like a mole – you can either embrace it, try to cover it up or remove it. The only difference is moles have had their coming out, the monobrow however is still waiting for its Marilyn Monroe, its Cindy Crawford. Sure, it has its Frieda Kahlo, but she had a pretty rare sexy-spanish-artist card to play. Moles even have another name to differentiate them from the other excluded bodily oddities – all one needs do is spot your face with a marker and you have yourself a ‘beauty spot’. If one were to take an eyebrow liner and bridge the gap, I can’t see anyone scoring praise from society for having a ‘beauty smear’.
I was lying in a bath the other night when I had a horrible epiphany – what would happen if I died? Right there and then, just slipped under the water and ceased to breathe the breath of life. The thing is, my epiphany had nothing to do with my non existence and the waste of it all; it had to do with how I would be perceived when I was found.
There I was lying naked – that is how I would be found, and people of note would see. Sure, it’s not a Marilyn Monroe status death, but my housemates and the paramedics would get a glance, and I’m not in the best of shape. I haven’t trimmed my toenails in months and the fluorescent light in the bathroom is horribly unflattering.
Then there is the worst part – my secrets.