A Rant About Being Attractive
Originally Published December 2, 2024
I’m an interesting person. I cut my own hair. I burn my own cds. I make my own jewelry. I patch my own clothes. I record my friends on a little camcorder like I’m Freddie Benson or Teddy Duncan and I’m learning how to play the drums. I love Spiderman and I wear rain boots to go dancing. I go dancing. My car is clown-sized and there’s rainbow daisies all over it. I read essays and write stories and love making things with my hands. I’m an interesting person.
I’m a pretty person. I know I’m pretty because people have always told me I’m pretty. I have long curly hair and big hazel eyes. I’m pretty and I know that because I’ve (almost) never heard otherwise. I know it because I’m told it, and I believe what I’m told.
I don’t necessarily consider myself to be a pretty person. I know I am, but when I find myself in every reflective surface I pass it’s not because I want to see how pretty I am. It’s because there’s pins on my overalls from the places I’ve been and the bands I’ve heard live. There’s earrings dangling down that I’ve been gifted from people I love. There’s countless bracelets on my wrists because I buy a new one every time I go to the beach. There’s headphones crushing my curls with punk rock slowly diminishing my eardrums within them. My socks have Wonder Woman on them and my shoes have flowers on them. There’s red lipstick smeared over my lips and a little bit on my teeth. There’s a harmonica and a tube of glitter in my purse. My glasses are too big for my face. I look at myself and I think, I’m interesting.
I have a hard time making friends. I don’t make friends often. It’s come to my attention that sometimes when I do make friends, I don’t really make friends. Sometimes when I make a friend, my friend knows that my eyes are hazel and doesn’t know that there’s flowers on my shoes, unless I tell them, but my friend just hears me and doesn’t really pay mind to the daisies. Sometimes when I make a friend, they know the ends of my hair are blonde, but don’t hear me when I tell them it’s because I spent years dying my roots pink. Sometimes when I make a friend, they know I’m short but they don’t notice I have to roll my jeans. Sometimes when I make a friend, they like my pictures on Instagram but never stop to smile for my camera footage. Sometimes when I make a friend, my friend tells me they love my writing but don’t remember a detail. Sometimes when I make a friend, they don’t really want to be my friend.
I’m an interesting person. I have good friends and they love me. They think I’m interesting. So when I sometimes make a new friend and they don’t care to see how I’m interesting, they don’t come up to me because I’m interesting, they don’t think I’m interesting, I don’t understand. I want to be known, I want to be someone to be interested in, someone whose life is to be interested in. I know my eyes are beautiful, I don’t know if you think my art says something. I know my hair is curly, I don’t know if you know I like it to look wild and free because I heard it in a song. I know there’s that song I should listen to, will it sound better if I burn it? Would you notice if I did? Does it really matter if I like the song? Are you just paying attention to me, or are you really paying attention to me?
I don’t really want to be looked at anymore, I want to be known. I want a friend. I want a friend that means it when they say they want to be my friend. I want to be interesting to them and I want them to be interesting. I know I’m pretty, I’m not interested in that. I know I’m pretty, ask me why I always have a water bottle in my hand. I know I’m pretty, ask me where the stickers on it came from. I know I’m pretty, is there anything else you have to say about me?
I’m an interesting person.
With love, Willianny
