I began my kink journey showing only the polished, well behaved “me”: the one with the perfect mascara whose hems are always sewn up who writes thinky essays. She’s the well-mannered one, and she’s more normal than I will ever be because she hides all her oddities away.
I got almost as bored of her as I did with some of the people she attracted.
I was never raised to be polite. I was taught to sit on the floor and eat with my hands, so one day I threw “normal” away. I hung up my ladylike smile and shoved my academia down the throat of the next pseudo-intellectual who stopped by my profile. I stopped trying and started being.
I posted fewer highbrow essays and started writing about man flu and blowjobs. I told you my mascara wasn’t really all that perfect and that there were crumbs in my cleavage.
Miraculously, I started attracting the kind of people I actually liked. The snobs and sophists around me evaporated with my awe-inspiring vocabulary. </irony.>
My grandmother was like “polished me”. Her lipstick was always as perfect as her posture. She wanted me to chase evolved things: marriage, money, and a real job outside the arts, but that’s what made her happy. Goofing around with a friend over a backgammon board with popcorn in my hair makes me happy.
The howling dog symphony next door gives my life more meaning than all the philosophy on my bookshelf ever will. I know I’m supposed to grow up and start taking my joy from more sophisticated things, but precious few people get happiness so I think I’ll stick to muddling along this way.
If everything we loved about life was exhibited in a shop window, I imagine your display would have two kids, a husband, and a Bentley parked next to a Caribbean villa. My window has a scrap of gingham, a puddle from last night’s rain and a bunch of friends asking why the hell there’s gingham in my window and where did I hide the wooden spoon for fucksakes? And that’s the magic of putting your freak on display: a whole bunch of similar freaks find out you exist and come over for tea.