Why she annoys me

Are you tired of reading about my days as a fishmonger on Telegraph Ave? Well, I'm tired of writing about it, but working the fish stand is the only remotely interesting thing going on, day after day. You want more thrills, read Tom Clancy or some such drivel. Reality is lots less riveting, especially my reality.

♦ ♦ ♦ 

Today I'll introduce you to JoAnne, another street vendor who annoys me, and what annoys me most is why she annoys me.

When we're working near each other, she's kept an eye on my stand while I've gone to the john, and I've returned the favor. She knows my name, and usually says hello. We've exchanged semi-sociable sentences, several times. She's never complained about the poetry, never been a smart-ass, and I've never heard her say anything Republican. Never once has JoAnne given me any valid reason to dislike her, but dislike her I do.

She's a young woman, very pretty, with a huge smile. When she has no customers and none of the other vendors are flirting with her, when there's no-one around and she's simply tidying the merchandise in her stall, her smile fades to merely a grin. Never once, though, have I glanced in her direction and caught her neither grinning nor smiling.

Her teeth are a marvel of modern dentistry. Her complexion is so super-smooth you'd swear she's never had a pimple. Her eyes are green, her cheeks lightly freckled, her hair almost mustard-yellow in a 1970s Frarrah-cut that catches the sunlight just so, and it's always perfectly coiffed. She seems to brush it hourly, and habitually runs her fingers through her hair every few minutes, then shakes her head wildly to keep the locks fluffy and free.

All day long, she holds her head at a slight angle, which seems engineered to be endearing. When she talks, her voice is high and girlish, a tee-hee giggle is always ready to burst through when she's even slightly amused, and she's easily amused. 

Her body is supermodel thin, so wispy she'd be bruised or broken in normal handling. When she's working, she wears something upscale, colorful and attractive, and at least a little sexy — low-cut or hanging off her shoulders. Today she wore a full skirt, slit 3/4 up the side. Nice legs. Nice everything, really.

I've never seen her dressed down or casual, except when she stops by Telegraph on her days off, and even in blue jeans she looks great.

JoAnne, you see, is beautiful. She is as gorgeous as any movie star, centerfold, or TV weatherbabe. Every straight man she meets is no doubt drooling on the inside, and I'm not immune. Obviously, I notice JoAnne. 

She's so damned attractive, though, so perfectly presented, I have to wonder — does she ever pick her nose and wipe the boogers on her pants? Does she need to wipe her ass, or do her bowels emerge sweetly scented and leave no residue? Does she even have bowels?

I ask seriously, can anyone who's so top-level physically attractive have ever experienced loneliness, insecurity, isolation, or even the existence of Friday nights without a date? Could she conceivably have any experience with being rejected?

Clearly, admittedly, undoubtedly, all the above is sexist, judgmental, ignorant, mean, and offensive. JoAnne has done nothing wrong. All she's done is try to be attractive, and she's succeeded.

The problem is me, not her. I'll stand by the spelling, punctuation, and grammar here, but what I'm saying pisses me off. I've written it because it's in my mind, and what's in my mind goes into my diary. It's not fair, though, and I ought to be embarrassed, and I am.

From Pathetic Life #15
Saturday, August 19, 1995

This is an entry retyped from an on-paper zine I wrote many years ago, called Pathetic Life. The opinions stated were my opinions then, but might not be my opinions now. Also, I said and did some disgusting things, so parental guidance is advised.


  1. I have heard that beautiful people can know loneliness, insecurity, isolation, and I believe it's true but dont believe they can know the depths of loneliness, insecurity, isolation that we the no beautiful know...

    Don't hate them for it, please. It's not their fault.

    1. I don't hate the beautiful people. Some days I almost envy them.

      Honestly though, I think I'd rather be maladjusted and misfit me, than some hunky Jon Hamm.


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