Imperfections

For the past month or so, while I was plagued with worry over my health and a slew of other things, I kept coming "face to face" with the same song over and over: that damn Beyonce song, "Flaws and All". I mean EVERYWHERE I turned that ish was playing: on my internet radio, on my REAL radio, on someone's blog playlist. I was like, DAMN- why is B stalking me??

On occasion, when the song would cut on, I would actually listen to the lyrics (which I totally know by heart now!) and then the Voices would start on their tangent thinking again. And they came up with this (taken from my notebook, written some time last week during a wicked bout of PMS...I forgot to date it):

Flaws...shit, I have a trillion-gazillion. Some you can see, some you can't. I have that widow's peak that I hated so much when I was a kid, made my face look like a heart...I shaved it once to get a rounder hairline; bizarre, right? Like, who does that? I leave it alone now, just part my hair to the side and you can't even see it. And the bangs, the bangs help hide it for sure.

My eyes always look tired. Sleepy. Is this what's meant by bedroom eyes? Dark circles, un-plucked brow, short stubby lashes, scar in the middle of my forehead. If I were a rapper I'd lie and be like, "Yeah, bitchez, I got that in a knife fight when I was selling rocks on the corner of Greene and Marcy" but yeah, right! I hit my head on the radiator...I was jumping on the bed after I was told not to. At least that's the story I was told.

(Oh, wait, so I hit my HEAD as a child? And I didn't go the the ER?? That explains soooo much!!)

And this nose! Lord Jesus, WHY? It makes it hard to distance myself from William R. Penzo when his nose looks back at me in the mirror every freakin' morning! Not fair! I'm not vain about it; the bump doesn't bother me. I just...I just don't want to look like HIM.

My smile is ok, I guess. My lips could be more even...sometimes the top one disappears when I laugh, and my canines could look less vampire-ish, but it's OK. The Acosta overbite passed over me so I'm grateful. My aunts are beautiful, but yeah, I like my mouth. It's okay.

My collarbone used to stick out something awful as a kid, made Nicole Ritchie look overweight; I hated it. I like it better now. My arms, too, are no longer strands of spaghetti. I'm happy for that, too. But my breasts...my...breasts... bigger and less perky than I want, for sure. $3,000 and a 100% guarantee that nothing will go wrong is what stands between me and a reduction. Plus I hear that sometimes you lose nipple sensitivity afterwards. WHAT?! What would be the point of living? I guess I'll keep buying the Ds...dented shoulders be damned...

My stomach...I can't really complain too much about it. It's not flat or fit because my nice mouth with the pointy canines and uneven lips allow too much food to pass through. I need a bouncer at the door to say, "Sorry, french-fries. We don't allow your kind here!" That would be cool- a big, angry Deebo-looking dude...crushing french fries with his bare hands.

(actually, it's not that hard to crush french-fries with one's bare hands...sometimes my stream of consciousness is a bit, well, developmentally challenged)

I gots no booty; I relate to Margaret Cho (was that who said it??) when she mentions Asian No Booty syndrome... me, too, honey, me, too. All "T" and no "A" I always joke. But I suppose it's not fair to have both. Would be nice, but I'll take what I got and hide it in a pair of really good jeans.

I like my legs; not as firm as back in the day but nice. I walk and walk and walk. I dance till I can't feel my toes. The legs are well taken care of. But below the calve...DO NOT TOUCH, DO NOT LOOK, just make believe there is nothing there. That middle toe is almost non-existent, and the second one is like that tall Asian ballplayer, an anomaly. I still wear my flip flops, and I see you staring. STOP IT. And DON'T TOUCH.

I see your flaws, too. I see you trying to hide your bald spot with that hipster faux-hawk. I see you trying to hide that belly with a black top, empire waist...I know that trick. I see that run in your stocking, that scuff on your shoe, the pen mark on your briefcase, the hole in your sweater, the blemish on your face. I can see where you attached the fake lashes and I can see the tracks from your weave a mile away. I saw your dirty and chewed up fingernails.

And I know you have secret flaws; they're not on your face but you have them. I have them, too. I'm bratty, did you know that? I throw tantrums all the time. I scream and kick and cry because I can't have my way. I'm selfish sometimes for no reason at all. I have a quick temper and sometimes, I tend to ignore people who really, really want my attention- I never want to give them what they want. Out of spite? I don't know. I'm secretive, and hide information away that doesn't even make sense to hide. And I lie about how I feel to keep up appearances- I'm that tough Brooklyn Girl and nothing phases me. But everything phases me, and when no one is looking I lock myself in the bathroom and cry in the shower.

It's my life, though. Imperfections...that's my job! Everything that crosses my desk has to be scrutinized and analyzed and a whole bunch of other "-izeds", because I need to find the flaws. The misspelled word, the misused comma, the missing period (Freudian slip??), the fragments and dangling participles- I have to find all of them and fix them. I have to make the words pretty and easy on the eyes. I have to make you want to read it, make you say, "wow that was perfect" and in turn, what you're actually saying to me is "wow...Raquel is perfect!"

I never let my lover look me in the eye, and if he does, I close mine. Because if I can't see him, he can't see me- remember that trick from when you were a scared kid hiding from El Cuco? Close your eyes and he won't be able to see you! I still do that, every time. If I close my eyes he can't see my flaws, or rather, I can't see him seeing *my* flaws.

*smooches...ripping out a page of my real diary in order to start anew*
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every once in a while its good to let it all out. it was either this or eat more fries... and stop looking at the typos and grammatical errors in my blog! you're gonna make me cry!!