I came down with another case of the "Hates" this past weekend at a friend's birthday party. Being a native New Yorker, who happens to work in an industry where attractiveness surpasses Godliness, I've grown accustomed to seeing unfair amounts of good-looking people congregating in one spot. Usually, I can manage my inherent hate towards the "beautiful" people by mercilessly picking them apart in my head. For example, about half of the good looking people only appear to be because they're wearing nice clothes, hair or makeup. I just imagine them bald and butt naked- and voila- they're usually reduced to average looking or below. If someone is genuinely good looking without excessive accoutrements, I can usually find some flaw like acne or gnarly teeth that will knock their rating down to about a six or seven, where I happen to dwell with my pretty face and flat booty. It's not nice for me to think this way, but I feel like if there's any truth to the notion of balance in the universe, then there has to be a system of checks and balances to keep beautiful people's egos from running amuck.
This system worked pretty well for me until I arrived at dude's party. I strutted in feeling like an eight in my new purple suede, pumps until I sat down and spotted a cluster of tall, fashionably dressed mannequins hoisted up by the bar. It wasn't until one of them seductively raked her hands through her lush, black mane that I realized they were fellow party-goers and not part of the decor. For a moment, I was completely stunned by them just like the ranks of wide-eyed men who were also transfixed by these fabulous creatures, except I didn't have steam shooting out of my ears, my tongue was still firmly in my mouth and there was no cartoon bubble with the words, "hubba hubba" hovering over me. I quickly snapped out of my trance. It would be a challenge, but I was sure I could break them down and check their gravity-defying asses. These girls didn't have any obvious flaws, and the dim lighting made it all the more difficult for me to notice any minor imperfections, so I had to move in closer for the kill. I reluctantly made my way over to the bar, which was not a good move for me because I'd inevitably look like a nappy, hunchback troll next to these Barbies. But I knew there had to be something wrong with them- and it was my duty to spot it and shut them down (in my head).
Awesome shoes were stuffed with great gams that were topped with rotund behinds that were swathed in chic spandex dresses which displayed tasteful amounts of superb cleavage attached to elongated necks and BAM- I spied dark under eye circles on one of the faces. But it sort of complimented her immaculate smokey eye make up, so it didn't count. My search continued and I noticed that the Breck hair was actually a weave, but that wasn't a good enough strike because it was a pretty decent one and who doesn't have fake hair? If I were to point out these flaws out to anybody else, they'd just reply with a, "So what, hater!" Or worse, they'd call attention to my flaws and I'd dwindle into a puddle of tears in purple suede shoes. I could care less if these hot chicks were dumb or uneducated because that stuff is totally overrated and worthless in a party setting.
I gave up and silently cursed the universe for creating girls like that and placing them in my presence. Why would you do that, Universe?! Just to piss all over my self-esteem? I thought I was so cute when I left my apartment and I was now immediately reduced to feeling like I did when I was eleven years old and my gym teacher, Mr. Malove, announced that I weighed a whopping 185 pounds within earshot of my adolescent crush Edwin Graham. I ordered a drink to calm myself and keep a serious hate attack from ensuing. As I sipped my wine, I fantasized about the girls possibly having halitosis or better yet- crotch rot. Nothing that good on the outside could be any good on the inside. But I'd never know. I tried to push them out of my mind for the remainder of the party but they caused a scene every time they sauntered by, parting the sea of partygoers like Moses' staff with hips and ass. Later in the evening I found myself chatting with a male friend who brazenly tried his luck with one of ladies by inquiring about her post-party plans. She casually replied that she was headed to hang out at a rather swanky hotel and somehow alluded that it was too rich for his blood. Defeated, my friend turned back to me and sulked, "Who hangs out at a hotel at 2 A.M.?" I grinned and said a silent, "Thank you," to the Universe for making them Whores.