The P!nk Season and The Wonderful Wrong People

Note: play it on youtube, it’s worth watching. Damn their embedding policies.

Once every year, I switch to her.

Last year my P!nk period lasted for two months. If I make it over three months this year, it might become permanent. And I will not mind, not one bit, I tell you.

It isn’t the sexy tomboy look, nor the perfect body and not even the multimillion dollar sales of her records that make her such an icon. It’s the attitude. It’s all in the attitude. You don’t need anything else to stand above everybody else. That’s what makes me look up to her, she has always taught me a little something about myself.

Oh, and speaking about “wrong people”, I come from a country where looks are pretty much everything. It might sound strange, but it’s true – and I am mostly talking about the women here. They are permanently choking on their own frustrations: my ass is too big, oh God that’s cellulite, my ankles are too thick, my nose is too big, I have to look thin, he won’t like me unless I lose 40 pounds. A lot of the shops there only sell up to a certain measure. Of course, Jeff Foxworthy said it himself: certain things should not be sold in certain sizes. And that it sadly true, but it doesn’t apply to the situation above. I remember going into a TinaR shop looking for pants. Plain pants. Unless you are 21 with the waist of a 14 year old suffering from anorexia you can’t really get anything from that shop. Not even simple things, like pants and shirts. And there are many shops who practice that policy. It’s like fluffy people can’t get good clothes unless they look like they fell off a Cosmo cover. Fuck them. The problem is that this unspoken and cruel method of keeping certain women out of the good shops has lead to the “my ass is too big” mentality. So the women resort to salad only diets and still water with lemon, just so they can keep their heads up as they finally enter one of the aforementioned shops.

It all stops once they get married. Most women do this. They torture themselves with diets and two-measure smaller jeans just so they can look “good”. Once the sucker puts the ring on the finger, they explode. The salad dries up in the fridge, Cola replaces the water and she’ll growl if you think of eating that second slice of pie. That’s hers! He’ll be happy he married her, you’d think as you’d walk her down the isle. What the hell was he thinking, you’d tell yourself while visiting six months after the wedding. And just as she pops into the room wearing those shorts that once drove you mad, she bends over and the stretchmarks burn your eyes. That’s where they all go at a certain point. They don’t care about their looks once they get the sucker to sign the marriage contract. Their frustrations will only return when the sucker decides to finally cheat.

I am dedicating this song to everyone else, to everyone that chose to be different.

My favorite point of exhibition is a public party. I like showing up a bit late. I like walking in there and I relish in the critical looks of women who are unhappy with themselves and choose to point fingers just to make themselves feel better. I love checking myself out in the mirror and I always order my drink with a smile on my face. I tap my foot to the music and after a bottle of something-something-darkside I sneak between the pretty dolls and start dancing. They always give you the “forget it, you’ll never look as good as me” and you MUST always give them the “I’ll always BE better than you” look. I usually look around, I test the surface. Once I manage to identify the brainless birdies, I start looking for the “wrong” people – the brunette who likes to cut her own hair, the dude with tattoos all over his forearms, the chick who’s had one too many martinis, the guy who wears black framed glasses and drinks Chardonnay, the short and chubby young lady who loves to dance. I choose them, I always choose them.

We go further than anyone else. We are picky and we never settle for what makes us unsure, because we know we deserve better. If you love us, you love us for who we are and for who we will continue to be. This is not a “Ugly people need love too” manifesto. That’s bullshit. What ISN’T bullshit is the fact that beauty really does come from the inside. It shows. If you feel pretty, you look pretty. If you feel cool, you act cool. It’s more important to be able to look at yourself in the mirror than to be able to look at everyone else.

I like partying with real people, the ones who aren’t afraid to jump around because it makes their hair messy. I like talking to people who know a little bit more about the world that they live in. I like drinking with people who know HOW to drink without getting smashed and puking their insides in the restaurant’s bathroom. I like dancing with people who have no problem with looking funny because they’re having too much fun to care about anyone else. I love surrounding myself with people who know how to enjoy their own company.

If you can’t look at yourself in the mirror for more than ten seconds without finding yourself unsatisfied about something, you are dead inside.

So this is me. I’ve cut my own hair, I wear what I like, I curse and I have opinions. If you put me down, I’ll come back up and smack you in the face. I don’t smile and swallow your insults, I spit new ones in your face. And trust me, I have a very rich vocabulary. I live my life however I want it.

So raise your glass and start having fun. Life is too short and much too cool to be spent sulking in a dark corner.

Forget the Barbie and Ken dolls. Forget the magazine covers. Forget the trends. Forget the DO’s and DON’T’s.

Take one long look in the mirror and start loving who you see staring back at you, that’s the only person who will always be there for you, the only person that’s coming with you everywhere, even down there, three feet under. That’s the only person who will ever really listen to you, the only one you’ll ever really feel, the only one that you’ll ever be able to count on. Yourself.

So yes, raise your glass.


Fuckin’ Perfect.

We’re never really alone in the world. I keep saying that we are just individuals who die alone and rott under three feet of dirt. I almost limited my own existence to this. How many of you haven’t done that?

The silence is convincing enough to say that none of you. We’ve all been there. We’ve all been in that particular point in our lives where nothing made sense, where nothing made us feel better about ourselves as we gazed into the mirror. We’ve all felt alone. Yet I am one of the fortunate ones.

You see, one day, not long ago, I got this link on my facebook page. Decades ago, she would’ve sung it herself right under my window with a bunch of flowers in one hand and an extralarge bottle of champagne in the other. We would celebrate this moment as one of the best moments in our lives. The moment in which I realized that I really am fucking perfect. Not to the world, not even to myself, but to someone who still loves and cares for me.

I’ve known her for almost ten years. It’ll be ten years in autumn. Ten years since I’ve shared my moments of grace and my moments of utter pain with her. We’ve been around for quite some time, you know. We’ve tasted the most delicious coffee and we’ve written poems about how missunderstood we were back when we were sixteen. We’ve painted our rage on a canvas and we played darts till three in the morning, laughing at men and at how they managed to put us down. We’ve sung our favorite songs from the eighties and we’ve cried on each other’s shoulder, wondering how we’ve managed to let people walk all over us. While she was happy in love with a stomach bloated with butterflies, I was struggling to pay my rent and eat something. She was never too busy with her butterflies, she passed some on to me and helped me rise again. I can’t even remember how many times she’s done that. While she was broken into pieces and I was still in shambles, I got down on my knees and gathered whatever I could find of her and I glued her back together. When I was happy, she was happy with me. When I felt alone, she knocked on my door and refused to let me sulk. When I left, she missed me. We’ve had moments of silence but she never really left the inside of me. She was always there, tapping her foot to whatever music I played and smacking me over the head whenever I went overboard.

We are invincible together, we really are. I’ll never let her break again and she’ll never let me drown again. She’ll always pull me back up and remind me why I am so fucking perfect. To her, anyway.

Years will pass, men will storm into our lives and turn us upside down, babies will be born and kids will paint our kitchen walls. Mother-in-laws will lurk around our homes and hypocrites will always try to twist us around. But we’ll always be together, we’ll always stand by each other’s side and I will always rip apart whoever dares to hurt her. I will cut deep and I will watch them bleed to death. I will punish whoever breaks her again. She’s too beautiful to be broken, just as I am too beautiful to be drowned. And she’ll never let me drown again, she tied a rope around my waist and she is still holding on to it. I’m not going anywhere.

I’m beautiful, I’m smart, I’m talented and I have a million dreams that I keep trying to make real. So is she. It’s really just the two of us, in spite of whatever it is that life tries to throw at us once in a while. We’re fucking perfect to each other. She is my best friend, my sister, my mother, that little piece of my soul that was born somewhere else and has decided to return to me. And I’m the same to her.

Remember the little heart medallions that you split in two and give one piece to that special friend? One piece says “Be–Fri–” and the other says “–st–ends”. She’s my “–st–ends”.

She keeps reminding me about how perfect I really am.

And when she does that, everything else seems to just fade away, as she constantly fuels me to become who I want to be.

That’s why I’m so fuckin’ perfect to her.

Ze Calendar

December 2018
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