Thong gone Wrong

"Thong Gone Wrong"
Now the lonely girl stands alone without a man and without a tan.

         I feel the same way I do about the winter Olympics as I do relationships. I used to really enjoy watching the ice skating segment of the Olympics I was in awe over all the crazy bullshit these people can do on ice, I personally try to avoid sharp objects and being under dressed in cold climates. Ice skating from a distance, or from where I would be sitting on my parents couch seemed so effortless and elegant, but at the end of each performance when the camera man would focus in on the skaters coming back in from the ice, they looked liked hot messes, tense, squinted up faces and although they were all shiny and limber, it looked very painful.

         Facebook tells me a lot of things, Facebook tells me when one of my friends likes, “Ass of the day” Facebook also tells me when another friend decides to also like the “Ass of the day” and then it gives me the grand total of how many of my friends have currently decided to actively hit like on the “Ass of the day” photo and sometimes Facebook will then try and make me hop on that bandwagon, suggesting I do the same.

         Besides giving me the heads up regarding the ass of the day, Facebook likes to let me know how single I truly am. It suggests all sorts of dating websites, sometimes it suggests “health retreats” which I assume are rehab facilities and I think Facebook might be crossing the line with this one. Well, maybe not. I had once thought that Netflix had the wrong idea about me and what I might like and well come to find out Netflix knows me better than 98% of actual human beings that I surround myself with in real life. It is so rare that I am shown something I like, that I wasn’t already aware of and that’s usually, I’m sorry always regarding a Netflix situation. Netflix has thrown me some curve balls too, they took some risks but they hit the nail on the head.

         Facebook needs to tone it down a notch, it can’t suggest I like dating websites, engagement rings and make the only other suggestion a mental health center. That’s not subtle, I know I’m single and crazy I don’t need Facebook to second that notion, that’s what my parents are for.
Sometimes the Facebook feed can be a lonely, lonely place. I am pretty sure everyone I know is either engaged, married or are in a serious relationship living together and on the verge of becoming engaged. All my friends are either engaged, married, parents or in a serious relationship in which they live together. They are taking the escalator up and I am heading toward the ground floor and possibly the basement, a level lower than ground level is what I’m trying to say.

         I look at all my friends in these relationships like they are magical ice skaters, like omg how did you do that tripel axel you dicks? “Whattttttt, She did a backflip and you caught her mid air?” “Wait, so you both can do securitized back hand springs?” They all mine as well speak in tongues, I am so removed from their magic that iv actually became more of a child to them, verses a friend that shares the same birth year and interests only I fell off for a hot minute, Neil style got lost in some woods and forgot how to act, speak, groom myself & I’m often confused as to why barking and making gargling noises isn’t an acceptable form of communication.

         I’m mad primal, like I can fuck like nobodies business, I know there is something wrong with my brain, that is why I think that’s why god made my body a crazy, fuck machine so that I could fuck the memories of my awkward behavior right out of someone. One summer I was acting really, really crazy. Like I have had some crazy summers but this one was like THE crazy summer. My boobs magically grew two-cup sizes and remained two-cup sizes bigger right up until the autumnal equinox, in which they magically shrunk back to their normal almost a full handful size. I truly believe god gave me bigger boobs that summer so that my chest would create a sort of diversion, people would focus in on my cleavage and pay less attention to the crazy, inconceivable nonsense that was spewing from my crazy mouth.

         It’s like when certain animals have certain exterior’s to survive in their habitat, well if I wanted to stay in new york city and still get a lot of free stuff without doing much, something had to distract people while I was speaking at all times. “There is no way she just said that, not with that kind of rack”.
Oh yes I did.
         Anyways, that was a cool summer. Sometimes I like to take out the one D cup bra I have from that summer that’s like so huge sometimes I can barely close my dresser drawer without being reminded that I had big boobs once for one whole summer, there are several aspects of my life that relate to the story of Cinderella on several different levels, this being one. But instead of my horse and carriage turning into a pumpkin and leaving a glass slipper in its place, my boobs turned back into the small B’s they had always been (almost a full handful) & a big giant leopard print D cup sized bra was left in their place. Not to mention that I am still confused as to why I bought a leopard print bra, that’s really not a move I would normally make. I think I having big boobs made me want to commit trashier crimes against fashion. I also wore a lot of red lipstick and bright blue eye shadow this summer as well. Everywhere I went I left a trail of sequins and depending on what time of the night it was, eye lashes as well. Having big boobs made my life all sparkly, so naturally I was drawn to shiny, sparkly objects. I have some very questionable open toe wedges that prove this point.

         Growing up, I never thought I was attractive or that anyone could ever possibly find me attractive. If not for my early discovery of my g spot, I might have assumed that I probably didn’t even have a female reproductive system. I’d assume that I was “disqualified” from the race to second base challenge. I was always rather insecure, I wore cotton bras from Gap Kids until I was sixteen years old. I gave up my favorite Gap kid’s sports bra the first time I decided to let someone “knock themselves out” by touching my not not right boob. Needless to say, for something that should have only taken thirty seconds it took a very long time. The situation ended with my arms being tangled over my head in my shirt, with my purple cotton gap sports bra wrapped around the neck of my hoodie. This is also the same night I discovered I was totally claustrophobic.
         I knew I could never have something like this happen to me again, so I did what any other upper middle class white girl would do in this situation. I started shoplifting thongs and lacey bras, I was the master of stealing thongs and bra’s I had it down to a science. I became so obsessed with whorish undergarment it began to run my life. I had a garbage bag full of Victoria secret bra’s in every color, strapless, push up, convertible, 8 way strap, miracle push up, silicone miracle push up, I think at one point out of desperation to steal something I hadn’t stolen before I stole a nursing bra.

         However, I had to hide my new hobby from my mother, because whenever I talked to her about female things like period’s sex, reproductive organs etc. should would act like a ten year old child who just discovered the “everyone poops” book for the very first time.
         Every time she would notice a thong of mine in the dirty wash she would throw it out and when I would address her about it she wouldn’t say a word at all, like when I mean she didn’t address it she totally did not address it. She would stare at me blankly for like 40 seconds and maybe then she would say, “what did you say?” but that was about as far as she could go verbally.

         So finally around the end of my sophomore year I started to feel like I was being acknowledged as a female human. I was getting notes in the hallway, my hands hurt by then end of a two hour long aim session, I was receiving request’s every five seconds, I felt like I was working on the floor of the stock exchange. I really had no idea who I was even talking to sometimes that’s why I usually just kept my head down in the hallways when I passed the opposite sex in general and if someone tried to address me by my name I ducked into the closest bathroom in proximity.

         Junior year was a mess. At this point I was so deep in my thong game I wasn’t even sure how I got these thongs on, the strings and the sequins and gold chain thingies associated within the make up of this very small undergarment. I went HAM at wet seal, I wore platform boots a mini skirt and 10 pounds of make up every single day. Now that I look back on it, I see all the time I had wasted getting ready in the morning. It would have been way easier and more time effective if I just filled my entire bathtub up with mac concealer and cracked two of the darkest shade of mac bronzer on the bathtub and mixed it all together with my leg and swam in it. Well isn’t that what getting older is all about, the “could a, should a, would a?” after thoughts. I also wish I didn’t take such a liking to fake baking, I wish I didn’t feel as though I had to attend to different salons a day spending approx. $30 dollars a day to achieve a tan that resembled the Crayola crayon color “burnt sierra” more than it resembled being tan.
Whatever, I dressed like a straight up streetwalker, but so did every other girl in my grade so I wasn’t alone in my whore crusade. The only difference between the other whore’s and myself was that they not only dressed the role but they played the roll and all I did was dress the roll, put up witty suggestive aim away messages and well, I ran really fast.. Away…. In the opposite direction of anything that liked me.
You see I could wear all the strings, chains and sequins and call it underwear. I could wear long, heavy over the top belly button jewelry and act like I wasn’t going to eventually get myself caught on my zipper, but it always ended up that way. My thong could have been hanging out a mile long and I may have been well aware of that, but just because I let it hang out didn’t mean that anyone had a chance in hell at seeing it. Not to mention the anxiety I had about what would happen in a scenario where I would have to try and take that thing off casually. I can only imagine what would happen, id go cross-eyed just trying to figure out how take off my own slut gear.
         I knew that I couldn’t keep living a lie, my box shaped, air brushed French manicure nails and all my name jewelry. I took one deep look at myself in the b hall bathroom mirror and thought for as much jewelry you have on to remind you of who you are, you don’t even have a clue as to who you are anymore. What I was was a boring take on a bad after school special. I was blurry soft-core porn. I wasn’t anything like these real sluts, they were the real sluts. They were the kind of girls who could wear complicating thongs and think nothing of it. They probably made Dismantling confusing whorish undergarments look easy.
         The truth was, deep, deep under this 6 layers of oil based foundation and powder, behind my witty, suggestive comic sans bold magenta words on aim I was nothing more than an umbro soccer short wearing, gap kid’s cotton bra having, self experimental masturbating nobody. The only thing I allowed within close proximity of my vagina was dull edges and my own weird fingers. I wasn’t ready to bring it hard, I had no idea what a commitment it would having to create my own bad reputation, I was exhausted and my thong choice of the day was a very uncomfortable one.

         I went home, ran upstairs slammed my door and dove into my dresser drawers in search of my gap kids cotton bra, I couldn’t even muster up the patience to try and dismantle my antiquate thong I had to just cut it off and let it hit the floor. I put on my lucky pair of umbro soccer shorts, my sambas and I laid flat on my back starring at the ceiling.

         I thought to myself I should have gone with my original plan, which would have been to first contract an eating disorder, then create a live journal account and keep a running tab of all the things I didn’t eat each day. Take scandalous pictures of my rib cage and make my neck into a candy dish and arrange skittles within my color bone and take a picture of this, adding an artistic, dramatic touch.

         Psst.. If I knew what I know now, I probably would have already been proposed to twice, I just made the wrong desperate attempt for male attention in High School, I feel like if I could have shown these guys that I was capable of maintaining something, such as a long term hatred toward my self image, they would see long term potential in me. I’ll never learn how to skate at this point, its better I sit this one out, bench warmer status.