world peace and skincare
This is what Miss Australia 2010 wishes for. Peace and better skincare. Good on her, I guess. But it just seems ludicrous. From the highly unlikely to the sweetly cosmetic, from tubed beauty to truced-up utopia, all in one hopeful breath.
But maybe the question set her up to fail. And I am all for good skincare. So I shouldn’t come across all mocking-like. I mean, she got off her ass and became Miss Australia, after all. Which is more than I can say for all the mooching youths on level 2 of my building at work. Not that I should really bring them into it, as irrelevant to this as they are. Plus, they don’t have the all the advantages of flawless skin and radiating beauty pageant glamour on their side (… far from it).
Being a faithful information worker, concerned with crucial matters such as email and fact-ferrying, I spend less time than maybe I should considering my corporeal being. E.g. if I were five years old and drawing a picture of myself as I am now (as mind-bending a premise as this might be), I would probably have a giant planet of a head and an atrophied stick-body.
[Shit… sorry… just got majorly distracted. Damned internet. I think I might have left my train of thought somewhere on Facebook. Umm, where was I……?]
It’s amazing what your body can tell you, though, when you stop to let it. Or when you pay someone to interpret its muted, cooped up cries. Crazy what a bit of strategic vertebrae prodding can unmask. And I’m not just talking revelations of the ‘oh, so you’ve fucked your back’ variety. No. Things far, far stranger and more unnerving (…speaking of nerve damage). I don’t know what has rattled me more — them knowing about more than just my skeletal wellbeing from the briefest of bone-prodding sessions, or the no high heels edict I have just been issued. Tomorrow I will have to go and buy flat work-worthy shoes and lose about 8 of my most precious centimetres. (Oh, but it could be worse. And — putting it all in perspective — at least I do have a fantastic skincare regime.)
In the early hours of Saturday morning I woke in what I can only call an oil spill panic. I woke thinking about it and couldn’t stop. It got worse the more I lay there. I had to get out of bed and turn the light on. I feel sick even just writing this now, but at least I am fully awake. I think I talked about night terrors a while ago somewhere on here (but now can’t find the thing I’m referring to because my tags are deficient). And also a little bit, kind of, sort of, here.
I remember a while ago my grandmother saying she had trouble even watching the six o’clock news. It’s like there’s no buffer between her and the world. She internalises everything. She takes on the weight of the world, no matter what the weight is. She has a thing about airports where she worries about where everybody is heading off to, where they’re going to sleep that night. I used to think her news aversion was a quaint ostrich technique permissable in people of a certain age. But now, well into my 33rd year, I find it a lot more appealing. Thank god our TV is fucked (pulled all the cords out and now can’t work out where they go) and our local online media is so watery and skewed I couldn’t get a powerful story out of it if I tried. Thank god for cotton wool. And skincare.
And this is a lovely song. I like its words.
I've got a flask inside my pocket We can share it on the train And if you promise to stay conscious I will try and do the same Yeah, we might die from medication But we sure killed all the pain But what was normal in the evening By the morning seems insane And I'm not sure what the trouble was That started all of this The reasons all have run away But the feeling never did It's not something I would recommend But it is one way to live Because what is simple in the moonlight By the morning never is
Filed under: things I don't like, thinking, tragedy | 3 Comments
Tags: diary, every day, music, peace, skin care