Fifty Cents: Any Takers?

Wednesday, December 26, 2007

 

I feel like a used coffee table at a second rate thrift store selling for fifty cents just so they can get rid of it sometimes. People don't buy it as is to use it. They buy it to fix it up to their standards. Sand it, change the legs, oil it, and varnish it. Why can't it be left alone and cherished for every ding, scratch, and morph in the wood?

 

Lauren, don't do this. Lauren, don't do that. Don't act that way in front of company! How dare you be yourself in public, don't you know that people can hear those burps and curse words? Put on that smile and charm and cutesy fake giggle and go blend in with the rest of them…. [If this is being read aloud, insert awkward cough here, please.] Am I just being stubborn, or does it seem like people are trying to mold me into what they think I should be like? Why can't you accept me for my faults, and love me that much more because of them? So what if I didn't feel like taking the time to wash, blow dry, and straighten my hair today? So what if my fingernail polish is chipped? So what if I get a little testy when I drive? So what if I'd rather sit in a corner and read my book than mingle with people I don't know? Is the world going to come crashing down if today I am just me? With my dirty hair, chipped polish, road rage, loner and all. I've found people who claim to love all my "little quirks." [Whether that refers to my stature or what, is yet to be seen.] Crooked teeth, snorting, pants constantly falling down, sasquatch toes…the list could go on for longer than I'm willing to share. Well that might be damn well close to the truth. But I'm getting the sneaking suspicion that it's a façade. You might love my trucker's mouth, but when it's aimed at you it becomes unladylike. Surely you can think it's endearing that my nail polish is chipped, even bordering adorable, but when we're going to a family function, it becomes ugly. I'm not going to claim supermodel status, but for fuck's sake I'm a size 0. So if my pants are constantly falling down and I'm constantly pulling them up, get over it. If I flip off the old lady driving to her bridge game because she's going 35 on highway 16, get the hell over it. If I don't feel like telling you every little secret that runs through my mind, get over it. If I'm horrible at videogames and would rather eat a rare bloody steak with my bare hands than ever play them, get the fuck over it. If I smell like smoke and it bothers you, get over it. If I laugh at something so mind numbingly childish that I snort like a farm raised pig and almost pee my pants…Get. Over. It.

 

I've told everyone I meet from the beginning: This is Lauren. She comes as is, with dents and scratches and a little beat up from the bumps in the road on her way here, but she's sturdy and more than worth any price you could pay. So don't try and sand me or oil me or varnish me. I come as is. If you want the pretense of something more, go to Ikea next time.

Well, I still feel this way sometimes. I still act the same, which is a nice reassuring thought. But I am much more comfortable in who I am than I used to be. Not as testy to defend myself. I can easily take small criticisms with a grain of salt and move on from them. It is funny how easy it is to read my emotion, I can remember exactly what tipped this off too.

Comments

[Captain]

In a world of strangers, m'love, you are important to SOMEONE for EVERYTHING that you are.

And hell's yeah. Sometimes you come on strong and make me step outside for a breather. But that's only because you let me in. And I let you in. Because I love you. For who you are. And I'd kill the bitch that took any of those qualities away from you. I'd shank them. Curbstomp the bitches.

You know how we do.

So fifty cents? That's all?
SOLD to the joker in the eyepatch. I promise not to sand, stain, or spackle you.

<3

P.S. You know that Mr. Foot hates the name Sasquatch.

[hrm]

You didn't exclude febreeze'ing you :p