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...But then again, no one wants to... Sunday, Nov. 02, 2008, 1:10 am The fact that I do not have the world's best body has always been in the back of my mind. I know I'm skinny, or at best slightly less than boyish shaped. And I know I have tiny boobs, but my lack of titts never really bothered me as much as it does since I met Ken. What a dick.No, it's not his fault. At the time, he didn't know that letting slip that he had only ever dated girls with giant racks and that I was some sort of weird and unexplicable anomaly would haunt me for at least the next two year, if not for the rest of my life. Ugh. I wish I could just be happy with myself, and for at least ten seconds some time feel like maybe I'm more than just adequate. I am fully aware that no one thinks I'm inadequate. I doubt Ken would have married me if he did, but it's become this gigantic thing that I think about more than I think about sex, for instance, or how annoying I'm probably being and how I should just shut up for once. And it doesn't help that now, the only time my boobs are ever going to grow even the tiniest bit bigger and maybe make me feel a little better about myself, there is no one around to appreciate them. Sure, Ken said I can have all the girl action I like, and I'm sure he has good intentions with that, but girls just don't care about boobs. They don't think about them all day. They don't have butter faces. They don't send each other pictures of girls with giant boobs and things written underneath like "Do you reall care what the rest of her looks like?" or "These are the best things ever" or "God's gift to man" or I don't know what else. And I know it probably has something to do with being a dude, and having to be macho and all that sort of thing, but I'm sure if I had a girlfriend, and she had a computer full of pictures of girls with gigantic boobs, I would still feel bad about myself. Girls won't sleep with me anyways. So that says something. Maybe it's just being pregnant and having the worse hormone situation ever, but I just feel homely all the time. Not ugly, but someone's wife you see at a party, and when you're introduced you think "Well, they must play x-box together or something, cause it's not that she's hideous, but she doesn't really have an particular attractions." And I hate when people go on and on about how "oh you're so tall and skinny and interesting looking, you should be a runway model" because WHO THE HELL EVER WANTED TO FUCK ONE OF THOSE CREEPY THINGS? Seriously, runway models are there to make clothes look good, and have some sort of weird, artistic appeal, like painter's models. They're retardedly skinny because most high fashion looks best the smaller it is, and they are retardedly tall because then there is more room for things like giant belts and miniskirts look shorter than they really are. They're never going to be on the cover of Maxim, and I'm pretty sure that the one guy who wanks to pictures of the Dolce and Gabanna women's collection is gay, and just really, really, really likes fashion. I can't stand myself, sometimes. I don't even look delicate and fragile, like short skinny girls do. I just look like a frigging giraffe. A giant, white, sexless giraffe with bad hair and what will eventually be the ugliet baby bump ever, I'm sure. I hate being pregnant, and I hate how it makes me feel, and I hate how I can't tell that to anyone because I'm supposed to be all excited and happy and joyful and "OH MY GOD I AM GETTING A BUMP LOOK AT MY BABY ISN'T IT CUTE I'M GOING TO GO LOOK AT DIAPERS FOR AN HOUR AND FANTASIZE!" Fuck. I can't even stand myself lately. And it is the hardest thing ever to be cheerful to Ken. I know he is busy, and doesn't need any extra stress, not even a tiny bit, and I want him to do well because I love him and I'm excited for him to be doing something he will love instead of hate. But it's hard to be cheerful every day to someone a gazillion miles away when you can't get to sleep at night because the only thing in your head is images of how he is glad to be away from you and your tiny, retarded, painful excuse for titts and pointless, fat-in-all-the-stupidest-places body. How he is probably lying next to some random girl right now, squeezing hers and wishing he could be away his whole life, and not chained to some girl he married because he was too scared to break up with her, and because she was pregnant (again). How he is dreading having to go online and talk to her and lie about how he loves her and how he misses her and how he hasn't gotten laid in three weeks. I know none of that is true. I'm sure none of that is true. He just isn't that person. And I know he is happy with me, because his friends have said so in the most unflattering of ways, so it certainly wasn't just to make me feel better. But I know that just like me, he sometimes has sex dreams about other people, maybe completely random, but I'm sure his random sex dreams involve gigantic, growing boobs, and certainly not skinny, flat chested runway models. And I know that every single porn he has ever gotten off looking at is of some girl who is at least three cup-sizes up from me. AND I AM OBSESSED WITH IT I just can't compete, and I don't know how to reconcile myself to the fact that just me and only me would never be quite satisfying enough, unless some sort of strange magic caused my body to morph into some sort of porn star. Which I'm sure is the situation with most marriages. And I guess no one likes the fact that their siginificant other needs porn to keep themselves on the upside of life. I sent Ken an email with some long, detailed questions a while ago, trying to clear this issue up in my head, because I know it bothers him that it bothers me, and I want to make his life easier. Then I realised that he can never answer any of these questions either truthfully, or without hurting my feelings, and he's not going to answer them. And now I can just feel them hanging in the air all the time, because now he knows exactly what bothers me, and I'm sure it made him feel like crap. That was never the intention, but somehow I often manage to make Ken feel like crap without even trying. That stupid email was possibly one of the most selfish, and stupid things I have ever done, and I have regretted it ever since I pressed send. I don't even have a nice ass to make up for it. In fact, none of my individual attributes that could be sexually attractive, really are. I'm like those aliens that made all the clones in Star Wars. Super beautiful, but kind of repulsive at the same time. And nothing about them is sexy. I am Nicole Kidman, basically. And fuck her. But then again, no one wants to... |