The road to success is paved with lipglossed saucers

I accidentally glance at the cover of a fashion magazine and see the x or y starlet with blond hair and blue eyes and ‘juicy’ lips (like she’d been stung by wasps, it seemed to me.) I take a look at another magazine, this time for men, and find the same type of beauty rubbed in my face, only she’s wearing her garters and high heels and nothing more. I take this discreet means of promotion more seriously and start looking at all the covers, one after the other. Tits, boobs, breasts, bosoms, udders, hips, loins, assmeats, asscheeks, asses, bums, buns, butts, bottoms, buttocks, nether regions, behinds, hindquarters, rumps and most certainly lips. Lips with ‘devious’ makeup so that they look fleshier, lips with silicone, lips with subtle latest fashion shades of neon fire brigade ‘sexy’ red or been dead for a week ‘mysterious’ white or brown. Monstrous lips which from a point onwards remind me of those natives who insert those saucer looking thingies in their lower lips cause they find it sexy. And it may well be for them, but this is Greece in year 2005, and women my age all try to look like Pamela Anderson. Yes, yes, we must stretch our faces, fill our lips and breasts and asses to the point of bursting and be hungry for sex 24/7 and always impeccable and perfectly dressed/ manicured/ depilated, but why? What about the brain department? Why struggle so much?

There is nothing wrong with taking care of one’s self, and I do not weigh four hundred pounds nor look like the protagonist of Nosferatu, but these things from a point onwards are empty. Like the years these sex bombs live when their star no longer shines. It’s a futile struggle against time; there will always be someone younger, prettier, easier. These women find themselves more desperate with each passing year, or early dead. And a corpse is a corpse: good looking or not, it only bothers those few fanatics of necrophilia. Is that what they are interested in?

At least both male and female life style magazines do agree on one thing: they are not looking for women, but inflatable knick-knacks.

The hidden joys of queuing

Art by Joseph Vargo

I was waiting in the Post Office the other day to pay some bills and get a parcel. It was the one with the Vargo art book. (Nipples harden and breath catches; goths will be goths...) In my backpack was Poison Elves #6, and from time to time I'd glimpse inside and smile knowingly. My coherent thinking consisted of the fact I was too grumpy and sleepy (I hate waking early in the morning) and that as soon as I was back home I would roll my body all over the pages of the art book. The only other trail of thought I could follow with some success consisted of a string of swearwords related to me working endless hours daily, and something immensely insulting concerning capitalism, money, responsibilities and adults. They feed people with success stories which mostly consist of somebody being able to buy whatever one wants. But what does one really need? Substitutes of happiness in the form of things amassed around one? A new mobile every three months? A happy family with two kids and a dog? (Personally, I would swap this anytime for a little talk with Mr Marilyn Manson; I have spotted a few surviving brain cells which I want to eradicate from existence. Meh.) Empty promises of fame with one's naked body as a passport? Where does this stop?

Capitalism, success stories and priorities my arse. Which is neither big nor hairy, but adequate for the needed statement.

Drooling (in secret)

Saw one of my ex today, the one I could end up in jail for dating by age difference alone. Kiddo looks good. Big lie. Kiddo looks downright gorgeous, making me wonder what drugs the creators were on when they added the finishing touches. Whatever it was, it was some fucking good shit, you know? They should buy from the same dealer a whole lot more often. Anyway, kiddo says he owes me a hug, and I have to admit I am tempted to ask for more. It's really hard to still be mad at him, though he sometimes does have the tendency to let his mouth flap unchecked. What do you expect, woman? He is only 19, godsdammit. Well, I have stopped trying to be mad a long time ago. I just can't. He makes me proud just by being himself: tall, gorgeous, smiling like a kitten, so very intelligent. His thirst for life betrays his true age. Oh, fuck it. He grows up and I grow old, but can't help but smile whenever our paths cross. Keep up the good work, kid. Kick them in the nuts. Way to go luv.