Sorry I don’t look exactly like what you expected. Or wanted. I was born into this body. I haven’t always treated it well. I’ve starved, sedated, amped, teased, dyed, painted, and burned it in order to try to look and feel Vogue perfect.
Sorry I’m late.
Sorry I don’t look exactly like what you expected. Or wanted. I was born into this body. I haven’t always treated it well. I’ve starved, sedated, amped, teased, dyed, painted, and burned it in order to try to look and feel Vogue perfect. My body loves me so dearly that it has stuck with me anyway. It’s still here. And in front of you. Even if you’re on your phone. Sorry, go ahead and take your call.
Sorry I don’t look exactly like my photo. I gained four pounds since I went on the pill. Oral contraception bloats women’s bodies like the ladies thrown in drowning pools on the Thames. It’s not a perfect science. Not like Viagra. I still work out, though. Partly because as an actress I live in fear for the day that casting offices decide to start implementing boxing style weigh-ins. And partly because exercising makes me feel strong. Sorry? Yes, I take the pill, because I do like to have sex. It’s 2016. I think women can have sex like a man without being burned like a witch in Salem.
Sorry I am so opinionated. I used to keep quiet, for fear of not being liked. But then I took a good look at the people who were supposed to be doing the liking. I often talk about politics. I gravitate toward people who are for something. I really don’t want to talk about the Kardashians, what kind of car you drive, or your favorite comic book heroes. My idea of a DC hero is Ruth Bader Ginsberg. Oh. I’m sorry you don’t know who that is.
Sorry I seem old to you. I realize the Eskimos put their elderly adrift on an ice floe, but with the polar ice caps melting so fast, the best shot you have of getting rid of me is to persuade me to move to the suburbs. Yes, I’m still single at my age. I was engaged, but it didn’t take. Sure, it would be nice to settle down and have kids, but I haven’t come this far to choose unwisely and for right now I like being able to do whatever the fuck I want.
Oh, sorry, no I’m not very ladylike. Sorry if you think I swear too much. I work in comedy and it comes with the territory of being the only woman in a writer’s room. Plus, some men I wouldn’t bend over backwards, or frontwards for, have called me a bitch or a cunt. So I guess I’ve learned by osmosis. Sorry.
Sorry, yes I do have a chipped tooth. I got that on another date. It was actually a business meeting, but the suit tried to turn it into a date. When he grabbed, I ran. When I fell, it broke. Sorry, no I haven’t gotten it fixed. Scars, cracks, marks, and chips remind me of the stories I have to tell. There isn’t enough spackle in the world to cover up bad human behavior.
Sorry, that wasn’t directed towards you. The bad human behavior part. But you did ask me out and you’ve fielded two phone calls from an ex girlfriend in front of me. I’m not sure if it’s this era in time, my generation in particular, or society’s screen saver de-sensitization, but sometimes I feel like you think I’m just a fuckable alternative to Candy Crush. Sorry, maybe it’s me.
I’m sorry, I have to leave.
S’cuse me, Waiter? I’ll have…the lobster. To go. He’ll get the check.
Previously posted on Pypo.
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