note: i'm rewriting "daddy's girl, redux". version two will be up shortly. kisskiss, a n n a
p.s. until then, amuse yourself with the following rant. for those of you who love me all acidic, enjoy. for those of you who whine that i demean myself when i'm livid, and that i should only write hazy, soft-focus posts, please be tolerant. the rowdy soccer hooligans who became fans after i spanked a small-willy'd indian boy in a bottom-of-the-line mitsubishi eclipse need love, too. ;)
FROM : mjsandiego2002@yaherb.com
TO : Your profile: "dime"
SUBJECT : hey
ATTACHED PHOTO: Yes!
we both had to laugh at your profile..im attaching my friends pic who lives in no cal, who is christian and 29, models for CK there and is a doctor, not to be rude , but he thought you just looked average. He knows.
good luck :)
neal
You can view their profile at:
http://www.IndianDating.com/profiles/view_profile.cfm?i=&pid=243627
dear dr. prevaricator,
wow, you model AND you doctor. my knickers are wet already. :p
i'm amazed at how ubiquitous models are amongst us brown folk. they're almost as often encountered as...doctors. to be honest, if you were smiling and i passed you on a street, i might have noticed you. but i would've done so b/c of a smile, not b/c of any other reason. i don't know if you're as great as you think or have been told, and frankly, i don't care. pictures don't tell me a damned thing. my last two boyfriends were beautiful and they photograph horribly. meanwhile, i look good in 98% of pictures that i'm in-- all that means is, i'm photogenic. that's not the same as being gorgeous.
you have similar attributes that make you photogenic. big fucking deal. no, i don't need "luck" with THIS one.
unlike other dumb bitches, i don't melt when i hear the "M" word, unless that word is MIT. i don't give a SHIT about doctors, unless, like Shalu and Rajni, they are doing it for the right fucking reasons. some of the status-whores whom i grew up with, who paid their way in to foreign medical schools, are no smarter than the nurse who will invariably save their ass when they fuck up and invite a malpractice suit. one of the greatest things my parents did was debunk the doctor myth for both of us. "don't buy in to how these people think, no one is better than someone else b/c of their job. you can probably do more to change the world if you are NOT a doctor" daddy said. "indians value all the wrong things".
daddy, as always, was right.
so "dr. model". you have worked for "CK". wow. in that BASTION for fashion, northern california, no less. hold on, i need a moment...it's getting hot in herre.
(does advil work on that pain you get, if you roll your eyes too violently? anyone? anyone? is there a "doctor" in the blogosphere? buehler??)
listen, cocky mcCocky. when you strut your shit for helmut lang or roberto cavalli, i will give you the props you *think* you deserve. you think you're oleksy? pah. if you're the kind of person who gets by on the grace that's your face, get your prescription for prozac filled NOW (oooh, you're a doctor! you can write it YOURSELF!!!) b/c you won't be pretty forever. if your face goes through a windshield or your hair falls out b/c of cancer, you will be nothing, b/c you've invested so much in what's fleeting.
how do i know? i read all that i needed to know, thank you. i "know" your kind. and you are far from pretty.
if either of those two horrific things happens to me, nothing will change. i'm the same shunned little girl that quacked awkwardly until i mysteriously swanned-out at 18. the "beauty" of that turn of events is, my insides have never changed. that's why i'm not worried about cancer or crashing cars.
i'm so glad that i can rely on just being me. what a blessed epiphany that is, at this precious moment. i don't have a job, i don't have anything right now, and i'm all good, motherfucker. my friends love me, my family treasures me and my ex-bfs hold no ill will my way. i am beyond lucky. and i'm not a model. or a doctor. my self-worth isn't determined by what i do or where i've worked. i think i might just have substance. if you are no longer a model, and you for some reason can't practice medicine, who are you?
when my tombstone is engraved, they can carve "She was loved". i'd much prefer that to "He was a CK model...and doctor!", b/c i'm all about what can't be seen or touched.
that's why i don't date "pretty" boys. i put that word in quotes b/c i'm actually, pacifically referring to boys who consider THEMSELVES pretty. been there, almost did that. any metrosexual who takes longer to get ready than ME has got to GO. i briefly dated an Armani model who, surprise surprise, was on his way to being a cardiothoracic surgeon. fine. he was striking and smart. unfortunately for all of us, he was explicitly aware of all this.
he only visited me once, b/c it wasn't feasible to hop back and forth between london (where he lived) and california.
there are things you only learn about a person, in person. things that cannot be observed over crackle-y international phone lines. things which must be seen in order to be believed. after a nap and shower, "model surgeon" was getting ready for a night out that included dinner at my favourite restaurant. i primped in my housemate's room, so that he could do his thing. and what...a...thing. (oh, worry not minnows...i'lll get to his...thing).
i'm not known for getting ready efficiently, so i was surprised when i walked in to the living room...to an empty couch. i had been so worried that this boy would be pacing, staring at his watch, wondering where the hell i was...well, all that worry was for naught.
suddenly i was seized with a frightening thought...what if something was wrong? i dropped my purse and ran for my room.
knock knock knock.
silence.
"dr. model...is everything okay?"
i was about to knock again when i heard a short, muffled sort of "yeah". okayyyyy. i was too suspicious to relax at this point, so i lied.
"i'm so sorry, could i run in for two seconds and grab something? if not, that's okay."
the door swung open.
i was flabbergasted.
he was nonchalant.
i tried not to stare.
he kept doing...what he was...doing.
all right, enough suspense.
he was STRAIGHTENING his HAIR. i'm talking about serum, round brush and FLAT IRON. bloody hell, even *i* don't preen that fucking much, and i'm an ex-pageant refugee!
"i'm almost done," he mumbled apologetically. "humidity...what can you do?"
fuck me, i would've thought he was gayer than a room full of liza-, barbara- and judy-impersonators, except...he wasn't. he was just supremely vain. and very fond of noticing his reflection in shiny surfaces (the fork at dinner, the wine glass, the tip of my unCHANEL'd nose. whatever.) london's finest was consumed with how WE looked together, whether people noticed us, if we were a cute enough couple. after he left, part of me felt like he expected a thank you note from my stock of Crane, for being allowed to bask in his presence. i was constantly made aware of how fortunate i was. wow.
all of this would've been enough. but this is me we were discussing, so obviously here is not where THIS story ends.
the last of the famous, international playboys had more in store to surprise anna with...when he was back home in new york, i called him to say "welcome home"...and i was thrilled when a different voice answered his mobile. "JAY!" i squealed, b/c i was fond of his best friend from glasgow. Jay sounded...interesting but i just chalked it up to jet lag.
"what have you guys been up to??? did he show you new york?"
"yeah..."
"tell me all about it!"
"well...(deep breath). um, his GIRLFRIEND took us to a great club."
"i beg your pardon?"
"yeah. you heard me."
"jay...?"
i heard an even greater sigh.
he whispered furtively and furiously in to the mic. "i can't take this. i can't do this to you. you're the sweetest girl, and you deserve more than this. i know he's my best friend but...my conscience has been bugging me for the last few months. her name is R___. she just graduated from MIT."
"oh my God." my head felt so light, i could've swore that my ponytail was getting longer as it slid down my back. i stopped pacing and crawled in to my legendary bed, swathed with 50 yards of bridal veil, all of which was suspended from a canopy i made myself one day, when i was bored. (if you're impressed, cease and desist. after that spurt of decorating genius, i got lazy and bought the tassels that held all those veiled curtains open...b/c martha stewart i ain't.) my eyes closed, and i curled up, not wanting to hear any more brogue. alas, jay wasn't done with me yet.
"please don't feel bad anneke...he really does like you, a lot. he even has your picture next to his bed..."
"really? is it next to hers?"
"actually...yeah."
"fucking hell."
"he prints out your emails...he let me read some of them. i can see why he saves them, they're lovely. i promise you he's infatuated with you."
"then?"
"it's just that...he's still in love with her."
"so he just expects that this will all end in one happy-assed menage a chump?"
"well, usually..."
"USUALLY???"
"yeah..."
"he's done this BEFORE??"
"um...most girls are okay with it...i mean...he gets away with it...b/c..."
"b/c he walked down a runway once? b/c he might be a surgeon one day? b/c he feels...ENTITLED?"
"look, i feel badly...i know this is awful, but please try and..."
"he LIED to me."
"he didn't lie about how he felt. he's genuinely torn!"
"oh, that makes it all fucking okay."
+++++++
doctors who model. models who doctor. i'm not going to continue the above story b/c some of you think i'm a terrible writer these days, that i am blocked and in need of a vacation apparently...i don't believe in torturing my loyal followers, so i WILL tell you that today, the philanderer is neither doctor nor model. and yes, he got his. not that i had anything to do with it.
so, brown dating retards. take your hubris and fucking BUGGER yourselves with it.
i may indeed be average-looking (since you both "know" what you're talking about) but the most important part of me is extraordinary. it's where my words commence, it's where the kisses that i rain down on my Godson's beaming face emanate from, it's where blood moves when i'm interval training. but you're the sort of boys who know nothing about such squishy red muscles. so i don't expect you to understand or care.
now go and delude some other 23 year old who will learn her lesson and then write about your implicit shittiness in six years. my vituperative work here is done.
+++++++
oh, and this is the pathetic santorum who helped out his bitch-ass friend above, by playing cyrano. apparently, a doctor who models on the side can't afford his own premium membership to brown dating, so he had to borrow one from the creature below.
p.s. nice "eyes"...hater.
