Being ugly was a choice I made. I’ve absolutely no interest in being eye fodder for just another slack jawed, dead eyed tosser who can’t string a sentence together even if his life depended on it.
And being ugly gives me a certain amount of invisibility; where I can gather information on them all. Note their tics, their gives. Note their transparencies and their lies.
And they all lie.
No, they do. Take that creature there, the one with the labels and the whiplash hair flip – she acts all sweet and friendly but I’ve seen her in action and it’s not pretty. Let’s just say it wouldn’t cost a fella a lot to get himself sorted… If you know what I mean. She’s studying in that big posh university ya know, the one where all the ‘celebrities’ send their kids… To turn them into more ‘celebs’.
Being ugly helps me hear things, things lads wouldn’t normally say in front of a girl for fear of upsetting her.
Things that make me feel vindicated, ya know.
Then I know they’re all arseholes.
The things they say about people, the obnoxiousness, the absolute vulgarity of their comments astounds me at times.
I know they’re just sheep but that doesn’t make it any easier.
Why are they so bothered about what women wear? What women look like – and who has given them the authority that they wield? They brandish it about, this badge, this righteousness!
She shouldn’t wear Levi’s – mammy jeans!
What’s the story Tara? Get em out!show yer best side!
I’d do her then flip her over and do her again
In your dreams!
If she’s old enough to crawl…
That one made me sick.
One day I’ll give it up.
Being ugly. Being invisible.
One day they’ll talk about me.
But I’ll already know what they say.
One day I’ll be more than they think I am.
And then they’ll really know it.
And they’ll still not know me.