Day 11 – Haunting
by Zoeyjane
Something people seem to compliment you the most on
Hardest post to write thus far, it seems.
Then again, almost every post seems to get harder to write. I sense a disturbance in the force, and its name is ‘ripping-the-band-aid-off-slowly’. That motherfucking hurts, when you have as much blonde body hair as I do.
So, hmm. Awkward.
Okay, I get a lot of compliments. It’s hard to narrow down what’s the most relevant (because they all seem wrong, to me), prevalent (because they all blur together when you’re trying to talk your way away from them), or elegant (I like to rhyme sometimes, okay?).
I get told I’m smart a lot. It was recommended that I apply for Mensa, actually. Yeah, um, nah. I like to set the bar low and then BAM surprise people with my wit at an amazingly awesome time, when they never would have expected anyone to have the answer. Like, uh, well. I don’t have an example. (Or maybe I do, but I don’t want you to realize I do, because it’s much easier if you never really have any expectations of me. Or my example-gathering abilities.)
I get called pretty. And variations of. Snore. I can beat the snot out of that one with my mouth taped shut. My eyes and muted throat noises will suffice. Most of the time, these compliments come from friends and/or people I have or may sleep with, or people hoping to be on one of the last two lists. Honey, you don’t look at the mantle when you’re poking the fire.
People say I’m a good mom. About 93% of them have never actually witnessed me in momming action. But truly, that one hit me the most when it came from two people: my ex and my sister. He, who had every reason to never admit that out loud and so many reasons to want to drag my mom-name through the mud in court, said that he couldn’t imagine anyone doing a better job with our daughter, full-time, even himself. He may have been drunk. She said that she wanted to be like me, when she was one. My heart.
People say I’m a good person. They’ve never directly met the dark side. But it is true that I totally won’t skimp on bus fare. It’s fraud. And I buy and cook food for dudes who live on the street. Everyone deserves some damn lasagna sometimes, y’know?
A good writer. Um. Well, then. I’ll just let you go back to the beginning of this post and reread it again, and then, I won’t even have to argue with that one.
Tits and Ass. Bought and flat.
Helpful and supportive. Except for when I’m selfishly avoiding you.
I give good advice, apparently. I just can’t give it to myself, so that’s kind of a fail.
God, people really suck at complimenting. You know they’re supposed to be true, right?
Okay, fine. I’ve got one.
My eyes.
I get complimented on my eyes all the time. Strangers, readers, friends, lovers, family, prospective lovers. I’ve always gotten something at some point about them.
They’ve been called witchy, because they change colour; bottomless; expressive; wise; enthralling; deep; soulful – can you tell that I paid attention, here? – humongous; mesmerizing; spooky; haunting; ethereal.
Ethereal is my favourite. Call me macabre – you wouldn’t be the first – but that word just sounds so lovely to me. It speaks of other worlds, pools of twilight, dark romance, willowy limbs and moonlit skin, a little bit of danger, a little bit of goddess. It’s got a little death around its edges. It hints at knowing more, seeing other planes, existence elsewhere.
It kind of, sadly, describes knowing too much, too soon, too irreversibly. It fits.
Tomorrow: Something you never get compliments on. [link]
