There she is, in all her nude glory.
Yes, with the "improperly" heavy, low hanging udders, with the "unseemly" large areolas, with the stretch marks on the muffin topped hips and the dubious, cheap tattoo on the side. With knees ground by kneeling and the shins covered in bruises and the expired hairdo half covering the buckle mark on the forehead. With her spiked shoes and ugly, bald, beer-bellied monsters shily, ineptly checking her out from the safety of behind - there she goes.
There she is, there she stands, anticonceptional patch barely hanging on to the elbow, French manicure in black because it's easier than cleaning under the nails, fuck you and who ever asked you anything.
With her "insufficiently pretty" face for the aberrant needs of schoolchildren, the sort of pre-sub-cvasi-males that can't get it up anyway (but it's not their fault! It's all due to neurotic "overexcitment" that's supposed to mask the sheer terror we're supposed to not notice).
Unabashedly naked, entirely shameless, I hold her above any female "celebrity" alive today, above any "star", supermodel, singer-songwriter-newswoman, self-important journa-hoi.
There she stands, towering above the lot of them. Which is to say that given the choice of populating my livingroom with her or some-face-on-TV, I'd take her. Every time.
And I'm not even kidding.
PS. I saw "the portait of a lady", the 1996 thing, the one with Nicole Kidman. The book fucking sucks, Henry Jamesii fucking sucks, the screenplay sucks, Kidman sucks, burn the whole lot down. It's scarcely on its own merit worthy of a two line post scriptum in an article about adult women.———
- What's the matter honey, you had thought you had opinions ?
Become an adult first, opine after. The self-precious "opinions" of prepubescent anxietyballs are of no interest to anyone. Keep 'em.
And for the record : the reason people don't "like you for you" is simply that YOU DON'T EXIST. She does. You don't, you're a figment of your very predictably trite imagination. Her we like for her. You we don't like at all, and for that matter we don't even notice. Because "you" doesn't exist. [↩]
- Ironically this schmuck actually thought he learned something from Balzac. He imagined his inept drivel to be "realism", and even beyond that : interesting. The sheer impudence! [↩]