On inner beauty

So I just thought, why not spit this out already as I don't seem to bother going to any of my weekly Tuesday activities today.

I've been wanting to discuss some 'motivational', 'encouraging' clichés that we old maids meet all the time. And this time I've chosen the following:

"Oh, dear, of course you'll find someone. After all, it's the inner beauty that matters!"

If you're anything like me, you've heard this. Several times. And it contains so much material to be upset about I can hardly even decide which part to handle first.

Does the sayer see the implicit statement that they think my physical appearance is unpleasant? Because it is there and I see it. Otherwise they wouldn't tell me to count on inner beauty.

Also, whoever says this actually says they don't even recognize the possibility that the reason I'm upset and the reason I think is why I'm alone could be dealing with anything else than, again, physical appearance. So they admit thinking I'm very shallow.

Guess what. I don't think I'm alone because I looked like Quasimodo or something. I'm not good-looking, yeah, but on most days I'm not ridiculously ugly, either. And I know for sure there's less pleasant-looking people than me in happy relationships. So that is just a minor part of my problem.

The real problem is:

I. DO. NOT. HAVE. THAT. GODDAMN. INNER. BEAUTY.

If you really knew me you'd know I'm:
- complicated
- bitter
- negative
- chronically anxious and stressed out
- non-vigilant
- non-moderate
- the writer of some really weird fanfiction (siriusly, you have no idea)
- full of jealousy
- uncapable of many ordinary social feelings or situations
- et cetera

In conclusion, I am as ugly inside as possible.

Let's take a rerun of that encouraging comment.

"Oh, dear, of course you'll find someone. After all, it's the inner beauty that matters!"

By this far, you will notice that this comments works pretty much as well as if you told Pocahontas: "Oh, dear, of course John Smith will fall in love with you. After all, all that matters is being naturally blonde and speaking fluent English!"

I have another metaphor in mind, too. I really attempt to make my point.

Imagine you're baking a cake. Then the cake gets a bit stuck in the cake mold, and parts of it get ripped of, and the cake ends up looking slightly uglier than it should've been but in your opinion still totally eatable. Then your friend comes along, thinking you're disappointed because you've ruined the cake, and tells, "Oh, dear, don't be disappointed - it's the taste that matters!" And you, well, you know that you'd run out of sugar so you've added in two desilitres of salt instead. The cake is doomed to taste horrid.

So, I don't want or need your friendly pats on my shoulder. All I want is to grow old enough to make everyone say, "Oh, dear, I must admit, you were right after all. You will be forever alone. I think I owe you shitloads of stuff because I was so wrong I bet on this several times."

Because I, as always, am right.

No point in making up a title

So pretty. Just like my thoughts.

Except... I think there's something I've forgotten...

Got it! It's not my thoughts! There's no one there to me! Like there's never been! I'm just as alone as I've always been!

Right. That's it. Back to desperation, then, I guess.

Btw. I've been thinking of inner beauty lately. There's something that pisses me off. If you stay tuned, you'll be hearing some whining quite soon.

Tired wobbling 'n stuff

I've realized I pretty much suck at giving relationship advice.

I thought I was good at it. I was planning on writing a fucking manual about relationships. But nowadays I've found out I just don't see when something's not meant to be or even when a friend clearly hides a new relation.

Maybe it's because I've never experienced all that stuff myself. And never will. Sigh. So I will skip that writing project, then, and move on to maybe finally someday writing an actual book about something real. Or more like, something irreal. I don't like real things any more. They don't appeal to me. I like to live in a fantasy, or several. I like to live in random fandoms.

And as I also said to a friend, I'm somehow lucky not to have anybody special, because for my friends I make creative gifts and surprises, but if I had a partner, an increasing amount of my so-called surprises would include me naked and nothing else. That's not too creative, I'll tell you. So, in order to become a writer and a better friend, I guess I just need to be an old maid. That's God's plan, folks. That's how it's meant to be.

But it's not like it didn't hurt any more, though. It sure as hell does.

I guess this post was slightly messy and difficult to figure out but I won't care because hey, who even reads this anyway... :D

Luv, Miia

PS. I passed my derby time trials. Dudes, my thighs are made of steel. Top that.