I wish I can write like her but I can’t. It’s depressing. I read her stuff and I’ll be all, “Fuck. If only. IF ONLY!”
You might have recognized her from somewhere which I do not want to mention. But I have to say that I’m pretty proud to have known her years before she became famous; when she was just a normal teenager bored out of her wits where while working, decided to record herself talking to well, herself. I love her writing and the way she thinks. I get all jealous when she throws in all this crazy ass bombastic words in her posts and I constantly have to put out my virtual dictionary or google those words just to know what they mean and then feel stupid that I’m actually doing that.
Yes, there’s always that one person whom you look up to. It’s not about her tattoos, although, it probably is, but it’s her brain that I am interested in. I suddenly feel the need to read shit loads of books just to be in par with her or meet shit loads of interesting people who’d talk about intellectual shit even when they’re drunk or high. I want to be like them so badly.
I don’t know. I think it’s those usage of bombastic words that makes one seem highly different from other people. So far, aside from Tavi and her, I don’t know any other interesting minds.
I actually know someone during one of my many wonderful cruises through life who talks about intellectual stuff like politics and people and then turn to you to ask for your opinion and you’re there being all, “Uh. I don’t know” then they’d give you this disappointed face and you feel stupid and shit. Yes, those people. I know them. What’s surprising though is that you’d think that these people like to talk about dirty ass shit like masturbation and sex and stuff, like you, but they don’t. They’d look at you disgusted and you’re sitting there thinking to yourself, “Whoa. I’m actually disappointed that she’s/he’s not like that.”
And then you realized that you’re much better than them because they are some boring old people with really funky hippie outfit and cool tattoos and money and tendency to smoke weed and not cough their shit out and they have crazy hippie sex all the fucking time and you don’t and that’s just fucking sad.
Which reminds me. Speaking about hippies having crazy hippie sex, I wish I had smaller boobs. Looking down at mine and imagining hers makes me wonder why would anyone appreciate big boobs since they’re such hassle when finding a good pair of button-up shirts. It’s a drag. And don’t even get me started on bras. Those are just as fucked up. Unless your super fucking rich, then good for you. But as for us ‘normal people’, normal COOL people, mind you, well, it’s just a tad bit hard for us to find the perfect bra.
Okay, I’m just rambling. You have a nice night. It’s 1.40am and I’m going to watch Sex and the City.
It’s 4am and four delicious episodes of Sex and the City later, I have finally come to a conclusion that I do not want to be an intellectual hippie who talks about politics and people and smoke weed and have crazy sex. No no. Instead, I would want to be a rich, single woman with my own fucking awesome apartment who spends her time going to fancy restaurants and talk about really important stuff like careers and sexcapades with her three awesome friends while fooling around with super hot and rich men. Yes, that is the life I want.
Let me ask you. They say that Sex and the City celebrate feminism by making women successful and able to have multiple partners just like men, and yet, the series constantly centres on female stereotypes where women are seen as materialistic and desperate for romance and men and think that the only thing that would make them happy is to finally settle down with somebody.
How is that feminism? But still, one can’t deny that Sex and the City is indeed sexy and the story is incredibly delicious. I’m not complaining, that’s for sure.
Good night. Officially.