“There’s only 2 types of people in the world: the ones that entertain, and the ones that observe.” - Britney J. Spears
With the unalterable confidence of the guy who once explained mansplaining to me, I know my psychiatrist thinks I’m his most riveting, tortured hot girl client. If my mental health practitioner didn’t have all those degrees and a full comprehension of chauvinism our sessions would just be: “Why are sad when be so sexy?”
Shout out to Dr B. from Folsom, California. I assume you’re treating me and Johnny Cash, exclusively. Unrelated: anyone know where I sign up to fall into a burning ring of fire?
I assume Dr. B looks forward—with elated anticipation—to our thoughtful conversations (such as sobbing unintelligibly) and the intellect I exhibit in recounting my experience with SSRI titration (more crying). At minimum, the way he masks any patronization is exhibited at Oscar-worthy performance levels. I attribute most of his validation to my looks. Beauty, perhaps, is the forebearer of rationality.
“Beauty, perhaps, is the forebearer of rationality.”
I wonder if he knows—as a straight white man—how much I critique cishet men on social media? “ACAB” includes DCI John Luther but “men suck” does NOT include Dr. B (or Idris Elba for that matter). Those are my standards, keep up.
I went to a concert a couple weeks ago and I was deeply disappointed because I was not called on stage simply for being the most alluring listener in the crowd. Though I despise nothing more than being the center of attention—obviously my rapt, contemplative gaze is more mysterious and intriguing than anyone else in attendance, and that deserves recognition. Don’t even get me started on the sexual tension between me and every nurse who has ever checked my blood pressure. Same principle applies to planes. Anyone can see I am the most accommodating seat mate. When I do my little runway strut down the aisle to the lavatory? Heads crane. Inconspicuously. One might even say imperceptibly. But I know.
It must be noted that I would only get up to use the airplane facilities if I have an aisle seat, of course. I would sooner die than make someone get up to let me out of my row (but sometimes a window seat is worth a UTI). Same goes for pressing the flight attendant call button. May as well have a guillotine booby trap drop from the aircraft overhead if you have the audacity to press that button unless a life or death situation is at hand. And if it’s my death on the line, so be it. That’s why flight attendants silently award me favorite passenger award.
I have no admissible evidence of said impressions and approval of me and my affable nature. However, the doormat is the guest’s first impression of the household and that’s not nothing!
For someone who sounds certain everybody is/should be in love with her, I spend the better part of my waking hours worrying whether or not people are mad at me. I fold under the pressure of the duties required to have all eyes on me (in the center of the ring, just like a circus). My self-esteem is but a soap bubble. I wish to remain relatively unknown while simultaneously crafting an unforgettable legacy while concurrently maintaining an unwavering commitment to being deferential. It’s pretty simple, actually. Anyway, not to bring this up again but any hits on that the ring of fire location? No worries, if not!
Afterword: as a reader, my wish is that you approach the above thinkpiece—and as a result, me—in a titillated, earnest sort of way. Because you’re my most engaged reader. And I recognize that.
Sincerest (like, in a more authentic way than most probably),
Lane