I haven't done this in a while, and meant to do something totally unrelated to myself, but...what can you do?

Camouflage

When the silk falls aside (it always does) you will see what I cannot hide, merely postpone. You may wonder at the bruises, and you may wonder at the bruiser. How will you react?

If you look past the bruises, accept them, soon you will see past the rings and the bracelets and notice hands that have learnt to kill, past the shiny shoes to feet that strike to the head.

Beneath my shirt lie rectus abdominis, obliques, and latissimus dorsi as well as the breasts you seek.

You will accept what's underneath, because you are the same, but unhidden.

Nice, ita.

drabble

Five foot two, eyes of blue. Clear, fair skin, naturally curly red hair, big tits. Seems like a win on nature's lottery.

My mother frowns at my new black, well-fitting sweater. "It's too tight." I go through a crosswalk. "Nice tits!" yells the kid out of his car window as his buddies snicker and others turn to look. The pickup driver slows down, honks and leers. Two guys walk towards me, elbowing each other. "My buddy likes your tits," one grins.

Food doesn't leer, doesn't give the old up-and-down look. Baggy clothes are very comfortable. People look away from fat women, and a taste of my snark stops cruel remarks in their tracks.

Having experienced both, I'd rather be respected than admired.

lesson one

This is what you do.

This is concealer, to hide your grandmother's freckles.

Here is foundation. It doesn't match your skin tone, so blend well.

Cheekbones are fine; make sure your blush is rosy.

Now, apply lipstick just inside your lip line.

Dark eyeliner, but only around the top two-thirds and bottom third, to make your eyes look bigger.

Monochromatic eyeshadow so no one will notice your epicanthic fold.

Nothing we can do about your profile, though. But for now, that'll do.

I accept it, because it is only intended to make me beautiful. Just as the other girls do.

Damn, there are some good drabbles in here.

However Much I Squirm

Pete Townshend nailed it.

It's there in the song lyric. Here I am, here I stand, officially good at what I do.

Dish me out another tailor-made compliment, tell me about some destiny I can't prevent

I write books. I cook. I fear remarkably little. That part's good.

conscience going on at me and on at me

Then there's that empty space in the middle, what I had, tossed, lost.

I just can't face my failure, I'm nothing but a well-fucked sailor

Watch me hide. Watch me melt into the big myth. Pete was right: there aint no way out.

When I’m ten, I decide this is the secret identity, awarded for powers to be named later and a decent 6th man for the Suns’ next draft.(they are both perennial quests, and my “powers” retain a fascination with cocaine.) When I’m thirteen, I start reading magazines that tell me I’ll be happy if I’m cute all the the time. People seem to think they know why I can’t, but there is something else, more than that. That “You’re kidding me” look is getting me in trouble already. At sixteen, I first start deciding I’m an artist, if maybe not much of a girl, and hide behind my words, and the idea that maybe “citizen” rules don’t always apply. When I apply to college, I flip out and embrace normality like a codependent with a 12-step program. There is no apple I won’t polish, no opinion I won’t doubt(if it’s mine) no momentary pleasure I won’t deny for some future I can’t even picture. This is a very achieving period, but I really hate myself. In my thirties, I’m finding that being myself is the biggest disguise of all.

Oh, congratulations, Jilli!

There is no apple I won’t polish, no opinion I won’t doubt (if it’s mine) no momentary pleasure I won’t deny for some future I can’t even picture.

Dude.

Just - duuuuuuuuuuuude.

At age nineteen, you could have put a lump of coal up my butt and gotten a diamond, Deb. I think I'm maturing in reverse.

I think I'm maturing in reverse.

Erika, may I tag?