The Myth of My Beautiful Mind

You have to love MIB. Well, maybe YOU don’t have to, but I do.

For some odd reason, he thinks I am beautiful. He has likened me to mountains, which impresses the hell out of me. How does he know what I look like? Well, we’ve exchanged photographs. Besides that, on that other web site, I had posted photographs of myself. I don’t know why. In my youth, I thought I was a pretty odd looking person. Embarrassingly so. I was small, thin, angular, not very feminine. I had ridiculously skinny legs, and still do. I didn’t wear dresses where my legs were exposed until my thirties. Same goes for shorts. I was a huge consumer of makeup, too. Now of course, I’m heading into old age and eventual cronedom, so I really don’t give a damn what I look like anymore. Even at my age, I will sometimes don a miniskirt. Who has time for makeup? If my face is clean when I leave the house, that’s a huge plus. I also don’t give a damn about anyone else’s opinions of my physical being, which is amazingly freeing. Since I don’t have the heavy burden of worrying about what other people think, I’m able to accomplish much more in my already busy day.

Recently, MIB made a comment to me that I found was somewhat peculiar. (I say “somewhat” because “rather” doesn’t fit the bill. It was only mildly odd.) If I can translate, he made a comment that if I were a psychobitch or something thereabouts, that would be too bad because such a disgusting personality would be hidden in a “gorgeous body” (his direct quote, not mine). Oh, and if that were the case, “all that glitters is not gold” – this is humorously told, and it made me smile.

However, though the comment was made in jest, I fear that MIB must have been happy to glean a modicum of truth about that from our association. Although it pains me to do so, I must now dispel the Myth of My Beautiful Mind, if only to make my real self more apparent to MIB. I don’t want him to open the Oreo of my mind and instead of finding a creamy white middle, he finds a paste consisting of flour and poo. After all, I can’t have him go through his daily trials and tribulations thinking I’m some sort of perfect goddess, flawless in every way.

No, just like my body, which is now angular with a spare tire around the middle, small and not very feminine, my mind is not exactly a pristine and wonderful mechanism with which to put on a pedestal.

Back in the “olden days” i.e. my tempestuous youth, my mind was clouded by many ominous things. First of all, I partied, a lot. I think many people of the twenty-something persuasion do. In retrospect, I was fairly responsible about it. I stuck to beer and only dabbled infrequently in minor psychedelic substances. I was deathly afraid of cocaine and heroine, and just as nervous about hard liquor.

Around this time, I became horribly depressed. Partly because of the substance abuse issues, and partly because I contracted a physical illness that caused me to think I was going to die. My mind became a veritable cesspool of dark and brooding thoughts. With therapy and a lot of good antidepressants, I clawed my way back to the light.

I also had a tendency to be down-right evil. That’s right, when properly nudged, I could invent revenges that would pale most manly men. In fact, most of my revenges had to do with the men in my life, and the women they threw me over for. I could go into detail, but I’m sure many of the things I did would be considered punishable offenses in a court of law. Besides, I’m now reformed.

So, there you have it. My confession that all that glitters is really not gold after all.

I hope you still love me, My Internet Boyfriend.

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