Mythical Bitches

I went to an amusement park when I was 15 or so with the family. As I was heading back alone to the rendezvous point one of those portrait artists stopped me and asked if he could draw me. I was brokety broke broke and politely declined. “No, no” he said, “I don’t want money, I just really want to draw you”. He was really cute, I didn’t know how to say no, and I wanted him to.

Remember that thing I said about this face on a normal body ruling the world…ya. My past is littered with the bones of these massive compliments I just left to bleach in the sun. I had no idea what to do with them. Blood doesn’t course through my veins, low self-esteem does/did/still does sometimes.

I ended up pen pal dating the portrait artist. There was no facebook, snapchat, msn nothing. If that were to have happened now…it would sound more like ‘hey, show me yer bewbs’.
Instead, in one of the letters he said that ‘if the face of Helen of Troy launched a thousand ships one look from you could have convinced them all to turn around and come home’. I can’t make this shit up.

I’ve been thinking on Miss Helen.
How angry/beautiful do you have to be to start a war? Kidnapped and disrespected…kill everyone, seems like a logical reaction.
Unlike Ariadne who, when abandoned on an island by her dude, just chilled the fuck out and got picked up by Dionysus and made both his wife and immortal. Upgrade, go mama go.

I have things in common with both of these mythical women, Ariadne we will get to another day (Sunday’s Greek name is actually Dionysus *swoon).

Helen and her war. Her face…I am willing to bet it was the mouth part of her face that sparked the epic battle. I too am my own best spin doctor, and hell hath no fury like a woman (period).

If I hadn’t run away from home shortly after the amusement park trip thereby negating my college fund…i would have made a fan-fucking-tastic lawyer. I manipulate the truth without breaking it with the deft skill of a blacksmith heating and beating a horseshoe into being.

Case and point. My best friend during the temptation of St. Anthony, bailed on me when I went back to him the 250^th time. She met him twice and HATED HIS GUTS. Not because of anything he said or did to her. She couldn’t take it, watching me kill myself over and over. She didn’t get it. I never gave her a chance to get it, I only ever said bad shit about him, painted myself innocent. I used her for a container to hold all the negative. Like a priest in a box.

No one walks into confessional and says, ‘Hey Father, I had a really good week, paid a few coffees forward, smiled a lot and was just good and kind”. Confession makes you pan for the bad like gold. Even if you were a good human all week, you must have had impure thoughts. Why do we gravitate to the negative like that? What is wrong with being happy?

I am so strong, smart and utterly convincing, I COULD call all the ships home, but the negative creeps in. I get this hhiccupingsensation when things are going well. I get scared.

I bare my throat in self-doubt and all of a sudden I am this submissive little twit, and I can’t shake it.

It’s not that I am scared of things not working out, are you kidding? I got that shit HANDLED.

I’m afraid I am scared of my potential, somewhere in here I know how powerful I am and I don’t want to inadvertently start a war.

This thought process of mine is quickly going the way of the Dodo. I’ll just feed it rocks until it dies. All of the outside positivity in the world can’t undo the years of self-doubt, I have to conquer this one my own and I will be calling the ships home. It’s safe here.  So say I.