I'm Too Real

Secretly, I am a pig.

When I'm outside, jostling about in overpopulated malls, crowded restaurants and noisy, smoke-filled bars, I like to make sure I look nice. I coordinate my outfits with my accessories, check my lipstick after every meal, set my hair just so. My friends know I'm vain, and how! Very few people need their egos boosted, and I am one of them. I am my own cheering squad. Every morning when I wake up, the first thing I do is kiss my reflection in the mirror - you beautiful tigress you, I say, raawr - then proceed to hog the bathroom for half an hour in order to scrub every single one of my bilbils*. It's not narcissism so much as concern for my fellow man: I love the people around me enough for me to want to look good for them. There's so much ugliness in the world already, why add to it? Beauty is a scarce commodity, and I intend to horde as much of it as possible, for as long as I can.

But sometimes, when lethargy takes over, I let go - pick my nose then wipe the boogers on my shorts; eat Cheetos in bed and leave the empty wrapper wedged in my Douglas Adam's compiled Hitchhiker's Guide(s) as a bookmark; scratch my armpits like a monkey; gorge on yemas while watching reruns of I Love Jeannie; smell my socks after I remove them; sometimes, when I am rock-bottom lazy and I have no plans of going out, I even forget to take a bath. In the interest of honesty, I'll tell you now: on such days, I smell like sour dough left on a sunny window sill. I swim in my own self-disgust, let it pass, then proceed to bathe vigorously for two hours. Yes, I can be a pig, but only when no one's looking. If ever I was left on a deserted island by myself, I'd shudder to think what I'd look like after two days of not shampooing. Still, with only wild boars and coconuts for company, who would really mind?

V., know this: I am no Venus de Milonga. The only thing I have in common with Her are these papaya-sized breasts, but even then, there are many other women who could beat me in that category. I am thorougly imperfect, so flawed I am amazed that anyone would even want to consider me as a (potential) mother for their (theoretical) child. Pigs aren't maternal - all we think about is sex and food. On occasion, we'll roll around in the mud with other pigs, or take an interest in the cobwebs around our sty, but generally, we're a boorish, selfish lot.

Now, excuse me while I go dig around for truffles ... in the fridge.

*love handles