I’m Not a Princess. So Bite Me.

I’ll never be one of those women who swans around at events wearing corsets, stilettos, and a pedicure painted by Dali. I’ve never even had a professional mani-pedi (just typing those words made me hurl). You’ll never see me wearing a belt as a skirt at a winter party because I prefer not turning into an icicle.

I will, however, be sure to drag my coat through a puddle and get icing in my hair. I will slip in the doorway and trip over the snack table. I don’t even have to drink to achieve all that. It’s a natural talent.

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I’m not willing to pay someone perfectly good chocolate money to paint my nails. Do I want to look hot? Yes. Do I want to be comfy, too? Does answering that question in the affirmative get me kicked out of the kink community forever? Because R300 is enough to buy about a thousand jars of Nutella, so why would I spend it on nails that will be chipped before I even get through the venue doors?

I take care of myself well enough. I primp and preen to within an inch of my life even if I’m single. You will not find is a single stray hair on my body. I’m OCD that way. What I’m not OCD about is prancing around in six inch heels while my feet die a thousand deaths.

Even in days of yore when I showed up at parties in the kind of dresses I can only drool over now, I was no good at being a princess. I’m the type whose mascara smudges five minutes after I put it on, whose lipstick turns orange within an hour, and whose hems will just. Not. Stay. Up. I even manage to get nail polish on my thighs and eyeliner under my nails.

If you see me at a party, please feel free to pick the cupcake crumbs out of my cleavage. I probably didn’t know they were there, but I always know there’s toothpaste on my sleeve, so don’t worry about that. It’s my natural state. I’m clumsy as fuck, and I sit on the floor. Bite me.

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