Since I love you all so much, I feel compelled to post something of interest: hot chicks!
When I was young, she was the epitome of the desirable woman. She has ruined more gym socks than any other person on Earth. And it wasn’t her (small) boobs or her (average) ass. It was her eyes and her teeth, her trend-setting hairstyle and her strangely compelling vacuousness. She got older and much crazier, then she got cancer and died. It’s too bad.
I’ve always been fascinated by the allure of celebrity vs the real-world appreciation of female beauty. We watch TV and films and we fill magazines with worshipful adoration of the leading ladies. But are they really hotter than a Brazilian showgirl or “that waitress” at the greasy spoon? No, they aren’t. It’s their unattainable nature (i.e. Farrah Fawcett) that invokes scarcity, and scarcity increases value. It’s the capitalist version of aesthetics.
Yes, it is. We gape at a dramatic mountain vista with the same wonder and astonishment as our prehistoric ancestors. The lines of a wild cat, the asymmetry of an orchid, the patterns of snow on rocks and the gentle curves of the ladies.
Beauty is not fashion, regardless of what the media wants you to believe. Fashion doesn’t define beauty; it feeds off it like a parasite.
We all know what’s pretty, but none of us can describe beauty. It’s more than just subjective interest; philosophers have struggled with the subject for centuries. Unfortunately, they are vested in (and shackled by) their own subjective interests. The wheels continue to spin.
In my life, I’ve fallen in love with, and would have no other woman than…
– a short busty Jersey girl.
– a striking blonde forest nymph.
– an aging hillbilly woman.
– a statuesque nerdy girl.
– a stunning homecoming queen.
– a hairy hippie girl.
– a slender brunette.
None of my ex-GF’s have anything in common. And between them were many short (sometimes very short) relationships with women of every description. The one thing they had in common was their ability to transfix me like no other. If I could explain it (and bottle it) I’d be rich.
Instead, we all must make do with our own ridiculously infallible desires.
And we men? Ladies, I have no fucking idea what you see in us. I’m just glad you see it.