Faking it

It hit us in a painful blast of pure epipheny.
Veera and me were walking down the street. Both in sexy black shoes, hair open, skinny jeans.

Except that my shoes were turning my feet an ugly shade of pink, my hair kept getting tangled in my watch and my jeans suddenly developed an aversion to my butt.


We're faking this girl thing.


It's as if we are constantly playing at being girls without actually having a frigging clue about what's happening. Real girlie girls scare me because I know they can see through all the layers of fakeness.

Gauche dosent even begin to sum it up :(

This is why teen fiction sells so amazingly well. Hunky stud boy-who-omigod!-also-reads-Niestche, always digs the rebel non-girly misfit leaving cheerleaders pouting in the background.

Real life is alarmingly,well,real. Straight shiny black hair always wins. Always!

Girls have looked at me like I'm frothing at the mouth when I confess that I personally look my best in my ratty Che teeshirt, shorts and grungy hair. We need an alternative universe where there is more than one appropiate way to sit in a mini-skirt.

It ended with me holding my shoes in my hands, skipping on hot concrete, hoping that gravity would ignore me for 2 minutes.

Ah, well, here's to fellow fakers out there for all the greusome social hara-kiri we may have comitted:


"Razy underwear creeping up my butt,
Razy underwear always in a rut"
-Phoebe Buffet.
F.R.I.E.N.D.S