Shrek Love

I'm in love with a little pot of green goo.

It's the Tea Tree Mask from the Body Shop, and it is literally a little pot of green goo. It's my go-to for breakouts, which are more or less eternal and simultaneous now. I wear it around the house - I also wear a skivvy and two wooly jumpers with a pair of Mickey Mouse sweatpants and ugg boots. So I am, essentially, Shrek.

I've suffered from depression before, and I've been open about that, but I don't think I - or anyone - have been fully honest about my insecurity. It plagues me like the devil, you've no idea. I spend most of my life kicking myself for doing whatever I did for the part of my life I haven't spent kicking myself. On my blog I'm more open, because you can't see me and I can't see you. Seeing is believing.

If I ever got a live in partner or a husband or whatever down the track, would I be confident enough to waddle around looking like Shrek? Probably not. I, like most women my age, have spent most of my life either wishing I was sexy or acting as if I were sexy. The former is the truth; the latter is my variation of self-confidence. It's sad! My mother, who is a woman who only gets about two hours sleep, can wake up looking like a woman who's only had about two hours sleep and feel confident my dad isn't going walk out because she's not a Victoria's Secret model. Me? I'm not so sure. I've lost faith in men, and I've lost faith in myself. This commercialized, industrialized, sexualized world has done wonders for my (distinct lack of) self esteem.

There's this boy that I am currently pretending that I'm not in love with - I'm saying that because I hate his guts and I hate my guts for not hating his guts properly (the definition of love) - who I inadvertently ran into. Well, when I say ran into I mean backed into, because he's huge, the gap between the back of my chair and the wall is tiny, he's to gentlemanly/awkward/drunk to say anything and I'm a deaf idiot. It's the sort of thing any person laughs off and forgets about in six seconds. Me? Oh, I laugh it off, alright. And then I'm kicking myself. Why? I'm human, but the person who can't accept that, is, well, me.

I think about a lot of people - I think I've said this before. I think about myself. I think about my dog and my mum and my sister. I think about the boy in lit class and Cristy and Hayden from MasterChef. But I may be the only person I know who considers it an honour to be thought of. I mean, if someone thought of me, just for a heartbeat, and it wasn't 'if she gets those extra marks in Ancient History I'm going to kill myself' I would be deliriously happy. Over the moon to Mars, where I'd fry with a big grin on my face.

You know what? I would love to be a stand up comedian. I love to laugh; I love to make other people laugh. It's why I repeat jokes o'er and o'er in the off chance I can recreate the scene of my mum pissing herself laughing at something idiotic I said when I was three. But I can't do it. I suffer from stage fright. Well, if I'm not, then my ears are. My great-granddad's ears go bright tomato red. I found out a couple of years ago I have my great-granddad's ears. I also, apparently, have my grandmother's lips. But with that, if I ever get kissed this milennia, will he/she be kissing me or my grandmother?

I really hate it when people say 'oh, you've got your mother's legs' (I do) and 'oh, you've got your father's feet' (Unfortunately). Because, and I'm blaming hormones for this, all I can think of is that I'm this pastiche of various different body parts, and someone eventually is going to be shagging the entire family. I'm sorry, I probably shouldn't have written that. But why censor thoughts? We think them, either way.

But it's fascinating when you find out something about yourself that you didn't know before. I mean, it's just strange - it's like you're not all yourself, and it's quite a scary thought that other people know you better than, well, you know you. You know, sometimes I have to actually remind myself that I am a walking piece of medical shit. I genuinely forget it, even when I've just got out of the shower and all I can see are the surgical scars. It's become so normal that sometimes I even think that everyone's got it. Sometimes I step back and thing 'wow...I'm stranger than you dreamt it...'

You know one character I identify with? The Phantom, being The Phantom of the Opera. That is such a cool name, innit? I half don't want to be remembered by my name - I'd be happy with The Moron of the Mod School. Seriously. Well, maybe not. Not as sexy. Anyway, the Phantom is living proof that ugly people can be sexy. Ugly people can be sexy, you know why? Because if we weren't then ugly people would have died out a long time ago. I mean, it gives me hope. The Moron of Mod School may eventually trip down the aisle eventually.

I wish people could feel what I feel. I don't think I'll ever meet anyone - lover, friend, whatever - who genuinely gets me. Or maybe I will. But maybe I'll just be too scared to show it. Because for all the show, for all the internet pseudonyms and angsty feminism, I'm really just Shrek in Ugg Boots, and I'm not too sure whether Fiona's coming anytime soon.