Asses & Asses

My readers—first of all, let me apologize for being MIA last week, and being late to post this week.  I was just so filled with angst last week that I couldn’t finish it, and then I was busy with school and waiting for a text that never came for 15 days.  But, rest assured, I’m back to my usual self—fly, emotionally stable, and now more desirable than ever.  No texts from any gentlemen this week, but I did rip a hole in my shorts trying to walk through a doorway and stepped in a looge barefoot, so, y’all better get on that because I’m in high demand/moments away from suicide.  Anyway, in an attempt of finally reaching the acceptance part of this incredibly overdramatic DABDA cycle of grief, I’ve decided to finally complete the initial post I wanted to write on the 13th, and grace the internet with my thoughts on one of the biggest pimples of the face of life: the dynamic of Asses and Asses.

Let us begin with the former of the two Asses.  Set the scene—it was one year and two days ago today: a hot autumn afternoon.  I was waiting at the bus stop, tired because I hate school, but comfortable, because I was in short shorts.  It was a particularly victorious occasion because it was the first time I had worn short shorts out and about in about 2 years, because I had been hung up on how my quads weren’t as fabulous as they were at my peak in high school and I misguidedly thought that anyone would give a crap.  It was while I was thinking about how stupid it had been to think that wearing short shorts would change my day in any way that I spotted a kind of shady looking guy working his way through the masses.  At first I thought maybe I was about to fall into the plot of a Bourne Ultimatum movie because he looked very edgy and a little out-of-breath, but I guess he was from a different kind of movie, because when he came up to me, instead of asking if I had witnessed any kidnappings lately, he asked, “are you 21?” (I wasn’t), then “do you smoke weed?” (I don’t), and then “can I give you $40 for a blowjob?” which I promptly did for no pay in front of everyone there.  Because it would have been ridiculous for me to instead grimace, say “NO!” obnoxiously (but fittingly) loudly, and then spend the next 6 hours feeling disgusted and asking myself why, right?  Or wait, yep, that’s what I did.  Why did it happen?  Y’all, it wasn’t even a corner.  And I’m pretty sure I was in a t-shirt.  In the end, I concluded that it was the shorts.  My exposed pale cellulitey thighs were just too sexy for the public eye.  Can we really blame him?  But in truth, the real motive, I suspect, was just that I was there, and was one of many targets.  The point is: some people are giant asses.

But what about the second kind of Asses?  We have no idea where this blatantly obvious train of thought is going, Melanie!  Well allow me to ease your minds.  It is now time to continue with the second half of the phenomenon–the latter of the Asses.  If you’re reading this, assuming you’re not a decapitated head in its last few seconds of life, you’ve got a body.  And chances are your body is different than many of the other bodies you interact with on a daily basis.  You are different colors (for example, pleasantly bronze, warm brown, or a searing red from thinking you’d get pleasantly bronze by not using sunblock at the beach even though you could smell your arm hair burning), have different face shapes (for example, mine is oblong gourd potato), and, most notably for today’s post, build up fat in different ways.  For some people, it sort of piles up like they have a rope tied around their waist and even if it wanted to their fat could not go below that threshold, for the lucky ones, it disperses itself evenly all over, and for still others, it avoids every single place on the body except for the glutes, where it stockpiles and forms actual mountains.  The point is: some people have giant asses.

And for whatever biological or socially constructed reason, the fates of these Asses are intertwined.  For the dynamic of Asses and Asses is that not only do the Asses attract the Asses, but, the Asses attract the Asses.  Or at least that’s what I’ve seen.  For I do not have a perfect body (see lazy eyelid, lovehandles, and acne), but I am possessor of a slightly-larger than average donk, and I have come to realize that my type is, in fact, idiots.  That is not to say that I see a jerk and inherently think “HE’S THE ONE!” because I wouldn’t develop feelings for an insensitive crapbag if I knew he was an insensitive crapbag.  (I’m not bitter.)  It happens as a result of deception.  You see, the thing about the Exhibit A Ass is that whatever he (or she) lacks in having feelings or giving a crap, he (or she) makes up for in the ability to seem like he (or she) has feelings or gives a crap.  It isn’t until after a breakup they convince themselves was their idea that they reveal their true intentions with lines like, “there was one point when I was like ‘oh, the booty…’ and I almost didn’t break up with you.”  (That was real, readers.  That was actually real.)harp

This is a phenomenon that I like to call the Curse of the Booty.  For the booty is currently considered a wonderful thing by society, but it comes with a price—you will live a harsh life, a cursed life, filled with people who, no matter how kind, how smart, or how hardworking you are, will always reduce you to two chunks of ass on a stick (or in my case, a trunk.  Been eatin’ a lot of ho-hos.)

Y’all, I’m going to just go uncensored for a second.  And I hope to peas you won’t judge me, but you probably will.  (Not that there was really any turning back after titling this “Asses & Asses.”)  Alright: I have spent my whole life working really dad gum hard to be good at stuff.  To be a relatively good person, to have some kind of skill sets, to understand philosophy, to recycle, for God’s sake!  Because I don’t operate on the logic that everyone deserves the best.  You need to work hard to make something of yourself if you want to be worth people’s time.  I don’t think that I’m good enough as I am; I don’t think any of us are.  We’ve got to try to be more–trying is what makes the difference.  So, I try.  And I obviously am stupid a lot, and terrible sometimes, but like, I’M MORE THAN AN ASS.  It truly boggles my mind and breaks the space where I should have a heart that this keeps happening, and I know I’m not alone in asking: WHAT DOES IT TAKE TO BE LOOKED AT AS MORE THAN A BUTT?

How many times am I going to lay on the beach waiting to be hit by a meteor because Mr. Spontaneous, Fun, & Hot turned out to only be looking for a hookup?  How many more times will I post an Instagram video just to make it look like I’m having more fun than you even though I just spent my day in a drive-thru?  HOW MANY MORE ANGSTY SONGS AM I GOING TO WRITE WHILE CRYING INTO THE OCEAN?  FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, I’M TOO EMO FOR THIS.

Will I regret these paragraphs soon?  Probably.  But for now…for now, it feels right.

Point is, I thought Mr. Spontaneous, Fun, & Hot liked me for my kickass sense of humor and personality, but he had a very different idea of what was going on, and I just don’t know why.  Was it because I was wearing a skirt that was so short that I ripped a hole in it trying to pull it down over the bottom of my buttcheeks?  Usually I wouldn’t deny that the way we dress does influence how people read our intentions to an extent, but in this case, I don’t think it had too much an influence, because while it was short, it also made me look like an eighth grader.  (Case in point: a 15 year old asked for my number when I was walking on the boardwalk that night.)  (Government disclaimer: I did not take it.)

This post is spiraling out of control, but I guess I need to write about it.  Y’all, I just don’t understand what you have to do to deter the users and the assholes.  I write blog posts about stepping barefoot into other people’s nasal fluids.  I am openly sexually awkward.  Do you know when I started saying “bra?”  In college.  IN COLLEGE.  I was a senior in high school still referring to the garment like they do on the Cartoon Network show Kids Next Door as “Battle Ready Armor.”  A SENIOR IN HIGH SCHOOL.  MY PERSONALITY IS ALL I GOT.  And that deters most everyone else, so why not the jerks?

The sad truth is that the implication of the dynamic of Asses & Asses is that it doesn’t matter gender, age, or how weird you are; people will try to take advantage of you.  Superficiality does reign strong.  Just a disappointing thing I’ve been coming to terms with lately.

So where is the part where this stops being such a downer of a post and we grow in some way from it?  I don’t know yet, but it is time for the moral.  The moral of the story is that while it’s valuable and sweet to be modest in terms of how you view yourself, it’s also naïve, and in my experience, living in a mindset of “I’m so ugly” leads to “wow…I can’t believe he’s talking to me” leads to not realizing that it is just a straight up turd trying to get something out of you.  You just can’t stay clueless.  You need to have confidence in yourself, and take things with a grain of salt.

We’re all a little bit of an asshole, so I’m not saying that you should look for someone who’s perfect, because it’s unrealistic.  You’ve just got to decide how much crap you are willing to take from a given asshole.  Hee hee.  Crap and asshole—there it is.  A poop joke is today’s uplifting end ploy.

I know this was a little different from my usual storytelling format since it was basically just a stream of consciousness, uncomfortably-personal venting session, but I hope you’re cool with that.  I thought about leaving out some details in case Mr. Spontaneous, Fun, & Hot read this, but then I realized that I’m not actually sure if he knows how to read (which probably should have been a sign), so I’m not too worried about it.

Righty-o, so last little tidbits…  First, shoutout to my friend Harper for the funny text that warranted a screenshot and posting up above!  It seemed very fitting.  And second, I’m going to start posting every other week now instead of each Thursday on the dot, so…there’s that.  It’s always a fun journey here, beloved readers who know everything about my life now even when I don’t know you’re reading, so I hope you’ll stop by again.

Also!  I know I don’t convey it all the time, but even when it’s bad, life is good.  Thanks for reading, chickpeas.

Yours in tragedy & angst—so much angst,


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