/lit/ - Literature

>>23326020
Otessa was five foot five. She was frumpy but fit and confident. I’d probably pass and consider the loose tarts I’ve seen around town and the gallery. In college the literature department had been plastered with this specific genre of young woman.

An ‘alternative’ to the mainstream sorority girl and premed note taking type. These ‘smart’, graceless, intellecutal brats that found their way into the art and literature departments.
As an art history major I couldn’t escape them. ‘Ladies’ reading Virginia Wolfe, Brontë, Sylvia Plath, jotting down meterless confessional poetry in leather bound notebooks. Ill fitting clothes, poorly applied make up that was chosen more to express her personality than hiding flaws and flattering natural beauty. Clothes that hugged the hips wrong and draped off the breast lazily. Hair that was unkempt and lazy. They didn’t shower enough, thought deodorant was unnatural, shaving was anti-feminist, tattoos of ‘deep’ lyrics form a cute emo band of their youth. They spent hundreds on Starbucks, smoked marijuana and drank, and misunderstood the double digit body count they had accrued with being at the top of the female social hierarchy. They’d come in to the Chad, the art gallery I worked at, with their newest tinder date, ‘those girls usually have fishy smells, it’s the trichemonas’ my friend would say. I’d hear her talk shit about art, she thought hers was better, typical. They lamented the success of others and knew they were destined for fame, influence, and feminist heroism. Prozac, SSRis, Wellbutrin, that’s before you consider the other drugs and alcohol they were medicating their low self esteem with. Loved on the upper east side, and listened to the 1975 and MGK. Most of them tried to pass off their insecurity as feminism. They’d be the ones sleeping with the men running museums and show rooms to get a job and then act as if they earned it via merit. Of course when you see them at bars or parties and you have no job to offer or wealth they don’t pay much attention. They were so distracted by their no where conversations with their overweight posse of frumpy single 30 year olds they probably believed the latest out rage was a matter of life and death. They wouldn’t be distracted by settling down and having kids and a cat in the yard. The truth is they had something to prove and it all stemmed from being ugly and ill equipped to compete with the typical aesthetically minded females that had already been claimed with an engagement ring. They were so focused on chasing money and corporate prestige they forgot that nobody is working for someone else for sake of working. It’s all vanity, baby. Anyway, I married a blonde and don’t give a shit about ugly girls or their thoughts, nobody really does, so I forgot she existed and nobody ever wrote something like this before. Most people don’t waste energy hating boring mundane slutty women.