So. I’m 32 inches around the waist and deemed as fat by most people. I don’t like shaving my legs and arms because it costs a lot of money and it feels like a waste of time. It’s a lot of hard work to just look pretty. I don’t want to cut my hair in a pretty way. I like it the way it is. I like it when I can tie it back up. I want to wear sleeveless shirts and not feel embarrassed about it because I’m not “skinny” or my skin isn’t as smooth as a fucking marble plane. I don’t want to wear a lot of make-up. It makes my skin itchy and uncomfortable and hot. I don’t like wearing pink and I’m not comfortable in roaming about in skirts and shorts in public. I’m just not. I might tell someone else that they shouldn’t feel embarrassed about wearing shorts or short-skirts but that doesn’t mean I should wear them, too. I don’t like it. I don’t take an hour to get dressed. I’m not a huge fan of chocolates. And I don’t eat chocolates and ice creams to look pretty. I don’t want to pluck my eyebrows, fuck it, I don’t. It hurts. It’s my fucking face, right above my eyes where the skin is so tender. I don’t fucking care that I’m a woman. I don’t want to wear salwars and stuff because everyone else is wearing, i’m wearing it because they’re comfortable I think I look OK in them. I don’t dress up for other people. I don’t dress up at all, anyway. But when I sometimes do, I do it because I want to look pretty. I have a hoodie that has the name of a football team. I don’t know shit about football but the hoodie is comfortable and warm and I love it. I don’t enjoy shopping for clothes or cosmetics or shoes, I don’t like spending ages in the trial room trying a shit load of clothes. I don’t like playing computer games not because I’m a girl but because I FUCKING DON’T LIKE IT. I’d rather read a book. And, no, I don’t wear large glasses to look nerdy and cute. I do not look cute in them. I certainly do not. I look hideous. But small glasses are impossible to wear, I can’t see anything through them, they’re just so fucking tiny. And no I do not wear my earrings to show off my motherfucking collection because I do not have a motherfucking collection of earrings. I do not own any make-up stuff. My mum owns the kajal and the lipstick and the crazy cream thing that makes your skin look like smooth rubber and gives you ten extra pimples. And no, I do not think that men shouldn’t use stuff like face wash and cream and stuff. God, do you have any idea how unhealthy it is for your skin to not to be washed properly? Don’t use body soap, idiot, use something that won’t kill your skin. And no, don’t give me shit about how “unmanly” and “girly” it is to use face cleansing lotions and stuff because it’s not. You should use them. And listen to me, just because I like my men tall doesn’t mean that I have anything against short men. My first (and only) boyfriend was short, barely as tall as me and even though he turned out to be a massive dickhead, I never had anything to say about his height, no, mum, stop it, I did not mind his height, saying “he was so short” over and over again won’t change my mind. He was a nice kisser. If a man wants to wear make-up or a saree or a salwar, I DO NOT HAVE ANYTHING AGAINST HIM. He is still manly as fuck because he. is. a. man. Wearing a saree won’t magically turn him into a woman. If that were the case then lots of people would be doing that already. I wish people would understand that. And I wish mum would stop saying that I should stop thinking like that because if I don’t no one is going to marry me. If I ever tell her that my boyfriend or husband needs to some ounce of brains in his skull and think like the way I do about these things, she’d say that for a relationship to work, I have to compromise a lot of things. Look, I don’t wanna marry anyone who wants me to compromise my morals. And I don’t care that mum thinks that there are no men out there like that who genuinely think like that. She always tells me that men cannot be feminists, that when they are talking about feminism, they are only saying it and they’re not genuine about it. I don’t want to believe her when she says that. She says that I’m too young and naive and that’s why I’m talking like that and that I’ll change when I grow up. Well, if that’s the case, then I don’t want to change. I don’t want to become so awful. I’m not going to elope with the neighbour’s household servant and I’m not going to marry someone simply because I’m too rebellious to be sane and get pregnant and any thing like that. I’m not that much of an idiot.
And yes, I am confused about my sexuality. The other time I saw a pretty woman and I was pretty confused about my sexuality. I’m not going to tell anyone outside of this place. Never. I can’t. I’m not an idiot. I know the consequences of such words. I might be wrong. I might be perfectly straight and maybe it was just that one woman. But I’m not going to get myself killed. Yes, I’ll probably get myself killed. Literally killed. So no one’s going to hear about it.
Anyway. I just went into a fit today I guess. I’ve been pissed since the afternoon. I get these awful migraines and I wanted to sleep and mum just started screaming about not washing a glass or something and every time I told her to lower her voice because it hurt she kept screaming louder and louder until she was screaming so loud she almost choked herself. I was both pissed and amused for a moment. But the amusement vapourised when she made me get up and clean my room. Like, I can clean my room when I don’t have a knife in my brain, right?
Well. Whatever. I hope no one reads this much. I ranted a lot. It’s almost 3 am. Good night, people.