The Pretty Girl Complex

You know a girl like Sara.

A pretty face without much substance.

She's not very smart. She's not very witty. She's not very original.

Sara lacks that special core, that uniqueness. Her personality is based solely on how people react to her outer beauty.

Growing up, she didn't take time to nourish her soul. She didn't read books. She didn't treat people nicely. Everyone kept saying she was beautiful, so she knew that was her power. That's what made her special. That's what made her better than everyone else.

Boldly placing yourself on top of a superficial pedestal is easy when you think everyone else is beneath you. Beauty trumps brains. It trumps money. It trumps creativity.

Sara craves people worshipping her. She only feels human when men are fawning over her. She only feels worthwhile when other women are jealous.

While most people have hobbies, Sara spends a lot of time staring in the mirror, putting on makeup or just admiring herself.

Guys are obsessed with her. It makes their day when she flirts with them. They tell their girlfriend "she's not my type" but secretly wish Sara was in her place. They would ditch their girl in a second if Sara batted her curled Maybelline eyelashes in distress. It would make their dick feel bigger to have such a stunning girl on their arm. A girl who looks like she stepped out of a movie.

While Sara is flaunting her youthful, trendy beauty, other girls her age feel invisible.

They don't realize they're attractive too, but in a more fascinating way. They're most beautiful when you take the time to study every crevice of their face. Those oddities in their features, the kind that might seem imperfect next to Sara, are what make them perfect. These girls have bumps on their noses. Freckles on their cheeks. Gaps between their teeth. Dark, creamy skin. Their beauty is so poetic, it's mesmerizing.

But immature guys don't pay attention to real beauty. They're programmed to want the obvious, whether its Heidi Klum or Megan Fox.

And while most girls hate Sara, they don't realize how much it would suck to be her.

Guys don't chase after Sara because she's interesting. They chase after her because she won the gene pool lottery. They don't want to learn everything about her. They just want to fuck her.

Eventually, Sara will no longer be able to triumph over the other girls.

Even her beauty won't hold a candle to reality.

Men might be attracted to shiny objects, but they get bored with them quickly. Real men want a partner who can stimulate them physically, mentally, and emotionally. They want someone with fiery passion. They want someone who can make intelligent conversation. They want someone who can make them laugh. They want someone who shares the same interests. They want someone who isn't bloated with arrogance. They want a lover who is their other half.

A best friend and a soul mate, wrapped up in one.

It might take a while for them to figure it out, but they eventually do.

And that's why it sucks to be Sara.

She never wins in the end.

Oh, Frankie!

When I was in middle school I had virtually no self-esteem.

Of course, I wasn't alone. But when you're 13, it feels like it.

I had been a really cute kid. But then things drastically changed. My teeth grew in severely crooked, thanks to a gum surgery (a benign tumor was removed). My front teeth grew in sideways. When I opened my mouth I looked like a freak. I stopped smiling when I was nine.

I hadn't grown into my nose yet. It was wide and had a hump and not at all like the dainty little upturned noses my blonde peers flaunted.

My hair was long, stringy, and frizzy. The humid south Florida weather promised I would never see a good hair day, no matter how many products my mom gave me.

I was pretty damn miserable.

I had crushes on boys, but they were pretty cruel to me when they found out. One popular boy even shouted "woof!" when he discovered I had the hots for him. If that doesn't shatter a sixth-grader's self-image, I don't know what does.

I suppose you could say being an awkward, unattractive pre-teen developed my character. I became extremely sarcastic. I didn't have many friends. I holed myself away at home, spending weekends writing humorous stories and fake magazine articles on the computer, instead of going to the mall with other girls my age. The Jennifer you know today was founded on that time period.

But I desperately wanted a boy to like me. I didn't even want a boyfriend. I just wanted a boy to LIKE ME. I wanted to feel pretty. I wanted to feel like I wasn't the biggest loser on the planet.

On the first day of seventh grade, that changed.

Frank, the new kid, sat next to me in algebra class. He was cute, in a non-threatening sort of way. He didn't use hair products and he didn't dress like a douchebag. He wore flannel. He had a strange accent. He had kind eyes.

I cracked a joke in class, and while my other classmates stared at me blankly, Frank laughed. Not at me, but at my joke! I couldn't believe it! It was a miracle!

Later that day in the cafeteria, my friends and I looked up to see Frank holding his lunch tray, hovering over us.

"Can I sit here?" he asked.

I nearly knocked my milk over the table, I was so eager to make room for him.

"Everyone here seems really superficial," he said, narrowing his eyes at a group of popular girls applying makeup at the next table. "I'm from New Jersey. I'm not used to palm trees and all these fancy houses."

After the girls I was sitting with went to hang out in the sunny quad, Frank and I talked. He was so easy to talk to, which surprised me. Other than my cousins, I didn't have much experience talking to boys my own age.

We became fast friends. He ate lunch with me every day. He laughed at all my jokes. He talked a lot about New Jersey. He was clearly very homesick. I didn't mind though because I didn't know much about the east coast. I found it all very interesting. I couldn't imagine not going to Disney World every weekend. I couldn't imagine a beach without palm trees. It all seemed very odd and exciting. Industrial and cool.

We started hanging out after school. I even went to a school dance with him, as friends, and taught him the Macarena. I couldn't believe Frank had never done it before! It was like hanging out with a Martian! Even President Clinton knew the Macarena!

And of course, from the moment we became best friends I knew I was madly in love with him. I had never been treated so nicely before by a boy who wasn't a relative. He made me feel so special.

Suddenly, my life changed.

My parents took me to Bennigan's for dinner during a weeknight. I should have known something was up because we only went there for special occasions and never during the week. I was halfway through my delicious hot wings when my parents dropped the bombshell.

We were moving to Nebraska.

Haha wait, what?

My dad had been offered a much better job up there in Omaha. One he simply couldn't turn down.

I was devastated.

I awkwardly parted ways with my friends. Saying goodbye to Frankie was the hardest. He promised me he would write.
And guess what. He did.

For a month, we wrote each other once a week. Neither one of us had e-mail back then. It was all snail mail, which, looking back on it, made his correspondence even more impressive.

But I was miserable in Omaha. I thought about Frankie all the time. I slept with his letters underneath my pillow. It was torture knowing he was there and I was here. That I was in love with him and he didn't know.

So, I decided I needed to tell him how I felt.

I recorded myself singing "Don't Let Go" by En Vogue onto a cassette tape and I mailed it to him.

It seemed like a really good idea at the time. It seemed so rational!

I didn't take into account that my singing voice sounds like a dying cat. I didn't realize that my wailing "there's gonna be some LOVE-MAKIN', HEART-BREAKIN', SOUL-SHAKIN' loooOoooOoove" was severely inappropriate.

After I mailed him the tape, I never heard from him again.

I was crushed.

At the time, I couldn't figure out why. Didn't he like me back? Wasn't my message obvious? Did he not like R&B?

I was flummoxed.

Of course, looking back now, I realize that I pretty much made the worst decision in the history of the world. And I laugh hysterically thinking about it.

Oh, man. Poor Frankie. I wish I could have seen his reaction when he hit play. I must have scared the shit outta that poor boy.

I wonder if he still has the tape.

Summer of 2006

I knew what he was going to say before he said it.

The panicky feeling of dread enveloped me, squeezing tighter and tighter. I nearly collapsed under its clutch. It had started six days before. He took longer to answer his cell. He wouldn't talk more than a minute. He didn't want to make plans. That warmth in his voice, reserved especially for me, was gone. He stopped saying "I love you."

It was so out of the blue.

There had been no fight. No obstacle had presented itself.

But there he was, standing on my parents' doorstep that sweltering summer day, looking sheepish and grim at the same time. He shuffled on the welcome mat. He didn't even want to come inside.

I grabbed his arm, desperately. Too desperately.

"I bought your favorite bagel," I cried out. "And that jalapeno cream cheese you love so much! Come eat lunch. Please."

He reluctantly stepped inside.

"I can't stay," he said, awkwardly. "I need to do something. I wanted to do it in person. Please don't make this any harder than it is."

I stood there in shock. A large mass blocked my throat from uttering any sound. Tears welled in my eyes.

"It's over, Jen," he said.

There were other words. I think there was even a fucking speech. I'm not sure. All I remember is crumbling on the floor in my white sundress like a giant tissue.

I was so pretty back then. Ninety-nine pounds. Twenty-two years old. Long brown hair.

"You can have any guy you want," he comforted me.

"But I want YOU!" I wailed back.

A panic attack arose in me. I begged him to reconsider. I told him he just needed time to think. He didn't even have a reason, other than he didn't think we were right for each other.

"WHY?"

"I just do."

Pride didn't exist that day. I threw myself at his feet. He didn't care.

When he left, I ran into the kitchen and threw the bagels against the wall. I picked up the carton of jalapeno cream cheese and smashed it on the floor, glaring at the white and green clumps against the beige tile.

Your first broken heart is the worst one. I heard that somewhere recently. It made me half-smile, because it's true. You honestly think the world has come to an end. It's a shock. It's grief. It's your soul trying to readjust to life without him.

I didn't eat for eight days. I forced down juice. I dropped down to ninety pounds. I was putting on a bikini in my bedroom when my mom came inside. "How can you be so sad when you look so amazing?" she marveled, staring at my body. I looked in the mirror. I had never been so thin. It didn't matter though. Nothing did.

Eventually I ate because my hunger returned against my will. But I was like a prisoner, trapped inside my aching mind. My head physically hurt to think about him.

Later that summer, I got my first real job at the newspaper. It distracted me a little bit. I went on a bunch of first dates and then hit ignore on my cell when the guys called back.

That fall, a guy I knew from an American Literature class in college randomly Facebook messaged me and we became pen pals, sharing our lives and deepest secrets. We fell in love through black and white and have been together ever since.

I'm with the person I'm meant to be with now. It's a comforting feeling amidst all the other troubles occurring in my life.

But that doesn't erase the past.

Today, my dad bought me lunch and the minute I took the first bite, an overwhelming sense of sadness smacked me in the heart. A distinct feeling I hadn't felt for seven years. I looked down.

It was that damn jalapeno cream cheese.

The Tale of Two Lovers

With his mischievous grin and saucy wit, Joe Orton could get away with just about anything.

So when the working class 20-something Brit moved to London to try his luck at acting, nobody questioned it.

Although he was a fair actor, with impressive physique and genuine charisma, it soon became clear the stage wasn't meant for Joe. He was an incredibly talented writer and his dark, dry humor shocked and delighted everyone who read his essays or short stories.

In 1951, Joe met and fell in love with an older, middle-class guy, Kenneth Halliwell, who seemed lonely and lost. Life hadn't been very fair to Kenneth. When he was 11, he had watched in horror as his mother was stung by a wasp and choked to death in front of him. When he was 23, he woke up one morning to find his father dead from a suicide in the kitchen, his head still in the gas oven. Both incidents had left the shy kid devastated.

Joe and Kenneth felt a deep understanding to one another. Joe, being so outgoing and joyful, brought Kenneth back to life. Kenneth, reserved and observant, brought out a more serious side in Joe. It was a perfect match.

The two started writing stories together, such as Lord Cucumber and the Boy Hairdresser. Their honest and humorous accounts of homosexuality raised eyebrows but didn't get them published at the time.

Bored by their lack of success, the two young men became pranksters.

In their spare time, they stole more than 70 books from the public library and defaced the covers before returning them. For example, on one cover they drew a naked middle-aged man with tattoos. Unfortunately, the library system didn't think the vandalized covers were very funny and both men were prosecuted. They spent six months in jail.

While Joe was in jail, something about being alone in a cell changed him. He had hours upon hours to think creatively and ponder about the world. His writing started to change. It became more mature and fresh and exciting. By the time he was released from jail, Joe was a changed man.

He started publishing unique and hilarious plays, such as Loot, which were gaining national attention. Critics either loved or hated him. Celebrities wanted to hang out with him. It was swinging sixties London and he was one of the hottest figures in town.

Unfortunately, his boyfriend couldn't bring himself to bask in the success.

Kenneth grew more and more jealous of Joe's growing fame and talent. He was bitter that Joe seemed to have moved on professionally, away from him. Whatever happened to writing stories together? He felt left behind, even though he was always at Joe's side, invited to the hottest parties and traveling the world on exotic vacations.

Kenneth started taking anti-depressants to ease the pain. His sulky, resentful attitude turned off most of Joe's new famous friends, who would invite the hot 30-something playwright to parties on the condition that Kenneth had to stay home. The two men began to grow distant.

On a warm August night in 1967, Joe decided he was going to break up with Kenneth the next day. After all, their lives were going in opposite directions. Joe had already fallen in love with another guy and wanted to see where that relationship went. It wouldn't be fair to string Kenneth along anymore. Plus, Joe was on top of the world. Tomorrow, he would be meeting with The Beatles to discuss a screenplay he had written for them.

But tomorrow never came.

While Joe slept, Kenneth took a hammer and bashed his boyfriend's skull nine times. Blood splattered all over the bed, the walls, and the floor. Then, Kenneth took an overdose of pills, killing himself instantly.

Heartbreakingly, Joe remained alive in his bed for several agonizing hours, before finally succumbing to death himself. The bodies of both men were found by their chauffeur the next morning.

Today, it still remains one of the most gory and disturbing crime scenes in London's history.

And just like he feared all along, Kenneth has been forgotten. He is merely a footnote in literary history.

The muse and murderer to a brilliant mind that was simply crushed too soon.

The One That Got Away

 

His name was Jeremy.

 

My parents had just dragged me, kicking and screaming, to a small town in Ohio. I was 16 and I didn't want to switch schools.

 

I refused to make friends. I sat in my new high school cafeteria, scowling at everyone who dared to make eye contact.

 

Frustrated, my parents forced me to audition for a community theater production.

 

I was Princess Jasmine. He was the genie.

 

 

I was sitting backstage when he appeared. I had noticed him the day before--a handsome Italian boy my own age, with dark brown curls, tan skin, and a boyish grin.

 

"Can I borrow a pencil?" he asked, sitting next to me.

 

I handed him a pencil wordlessly, glaring at him for bothering me. I still hated everyone in my new town.

 

"They're playing our song right now," he said casually, making notes on his script.

 

In the background, the sound speaker was softly playing "I Knew I Loved You" by Savage Garden.

 

I stared at him, dumbfounded.

 

"What are you talking about?" I asked. "You don't even know me."

 

"You're right," he said, looking up thoughtfully. "We should get to know each other better. Especially now that we have a song."

 

I shook my head in amazement.

 

"You're crazy," was all I could muster.

 

"I know, isn't it great?" he shot back, with a big smile and a wink, before tossing the pencil back in my lap and walking away.

 

 

For the next week, Jeremy followed me around, acting like we'd known each other our whole lives. I got used to him. I couldn't help laugh at his jokes. And when we figured out he lived in the neighborhood next to mine, he started giving me rides to play rehearsal in his shiny black BMW.

 

He quickly became my best friend. We spent every weekend together, riding around town in his car. Hikes at the state park. Drive-in movies. Mini golf. Sometimes we would even just park somewhere random, talking and laughing for hours.

 

 

I drank up every detail about him. Despite his effortless charm and outgoing personality, Jeremy was quietly unhappy. His dad owned a software company, which took him to Europe or Asia for months at a time. His mom was never home and would sometimes disappear for weeks, without even saying goodbye. And although he would never admit it, I knew Jeremy hated being alone in that big house.

 

I didn't make many friends at my new high school. All I could think about was him. Jeremy attended a Catholic school across town. The only frustration to our relationship was those large chunks during the week when I couldn't see him. I found myself impatiently going through the motions of school, waiting for the final bell to ring. I knew he felt the same way because as soon as I would pull into my driveway, he would already be sitting on my front steps jokingly shouting, "what took you so long?"

 

 

One Saturday afternoon we were laughing hysterically on the couch in his living room, smearing his leftover birthday cake on each other's faces after some silly argument, when he suddenly grew serious.

 

"I love you, Jen," he told me, staring in my frosting-framed eyes.

 

My heart soared.

 

 

The summer after our high school graduation, I helped Jeremy pack up his boxes. He was heading to Stanford. I was heading to Missouri for journalism school.

 

We numbly agreed to end things between us. A long-distance relationship didn't make sense. Our lives were about to drastically change and we knew it. We were already a part of each other's pasts before our futures had even begun.

 

Of course, I couldn't just get over him. Nothing is that clean.

 

I drifted unhappily through my first semester of college, putting my efforts into studying and ignoring social opportunities. One afternoon, I stared in my bedroom mirror, in a daze, watching my reflection cut my long brown hair off with scissors. I gazed nonchalantly as each lock dropped to the ground.

 

Chop chop. Snip snip. Bye bye.

 

 

But my depression slowly evaporated and I found myself getting caught up in the excitement of university life.

 

During my junior year of college, I fell madly in love with the half-Egyptian sports editor of my college newspaper.

 

Six months into our relationship, I was sitting on his lap in front of my desktop, checking my brand new Facebook account. It was 2005 and I was mesmerized that I was able to reconnect with all my old high school friends with the click of a button.

 

I came across Jeremy. He was no longer at Stanford. He had transferred to NYU.

 

And there before my eyes was a status update that turned my world upside down.

 

Jeremy is gay.

 

My eyes blurred with tears. I couldn't even finish reading the comments of support from his friends. He said he had been confused for a long time and as a devout Catholic, it took him years to even come to terms with the realization.

 

My boyfriend swiveled me around on his lap, noticing the tears in my eyes.

 

"What's wrong, honey?" he asked, worried. "Who's this Jeremy?

 

Nobody, I told him, just some guy I used to know.

 

It was a painful realization to face.

 

The one that got away had never even been mine.

Blood in the Chalet

One of my favorite movies is The Party.

It's a 1968 hilarious showcase of Hollywood glamour and wacky shenanigans.

The film revolves around a bumbling, yet lovable, struggling Indian actor who is accidentally invited to a ritzy movie studio honcho's sophisticated party.

The love interest in the film always takes my breath away every time I watch it. Her name is Claudine Longet.

The daintily beautiful French pop star plays an up-and-coming actress in the comedy. She's divine.

But her life has been anything but.

This is her story.

When she was 18-years-old, the Paris-born Claudine was a sexy, but soft-spoken, showgirl struggling to make ends meet in Las Vegas. One day, her car had broken down on the side of the road, and she stood there helplessly, unsure about what to do. A fancy car pulled over, and out stepped Andy Williams, one of the biggest pop stars in the world. The 32-year-old heartthrob was so enamoured with the exquisite French beauty, he asked her out on the spot. They married a year later.

For the next decade, their life was a dazzling Hollywood fairytale. They jet-setted around the world, drinking champagne at extravagant parties with their closest friends, such as Barbra Streisand and the Kennedys.

They lounged by their crystal blue pool at their Palm Beach home.

They rocked the red carpet at movie premieres.

Claudine's career was skyrocketing, with television appearances, hit singles, and film offers.

Andy's career was also at an all-time high, with a new televised variety show, top billing at Cesar's Palace in Las Vegas, and radio hits.

During the 1960s, they had three children who they absolutely adored.

But by the late 1960s, their perfect world started to unravel.

Their best friend, Robert Kennedy, was assassinated on the very day they were supposed to spend the evening with him.

Soon, the tabloids started blasting rumors that the handsome Andy was having a sizzling affair with Robert's widow, Ethel Kennedy.

Along with their tragic loss and facing such a humiliating scandal, the couple realized, after 14 years of marriage, they were no longer in love. Andy no longer felt fireworks every time he looked in his beautiful wife's eyes. Claudine admitted she couldn't stand the sight of him. They divorced so amicably, they decided to use the same lawyer.

After the divorce, Claudine met and fell in love with an Olympic medalist and skier, "Spider" Vladimir Peter Sabich Jr. She and her three children quickly moved into his Aspen home, which was a jolt of reality for the swinging ladies' man.

His friends noticed that he was becoming increasingly unhappy with the relationship. They noticed Claudine was clingy and jealous. Spider told them he wanted to break up with Claudine, but she refused to let it happen.

On a fateful afternoon in 1976, Claudine was sitting in their spacious chalet, waiting for her kids to come home from school. But Spider came home first. He decided to shower and get ready for a party the two were attending that night.

Claudine walked into the bathroom, as he was disrobing, and with a pistol, shot him. His blood drowned the bathroom floor. He died in her arms on the way to the emergency room.

Andy rushed to Aspen to comfort his ex-wife, and it turned out, she needed it. Desperately. Although she told police that the shooting was a complete accident (Spider had been teaching her how to use the gun, she claimed) the city of Aspen had a different opinion.

People in the ritzy Colorado town practically spit on her in the streets and deemed her a murderess.

She was charged with reckless manslaughter.

Her murder trial became one of the most sensationalized events of the 1970s. It was the first crime to make the cover of People magazine. The Rolling Stones even recorded a song about Claudine.

And although the world delighted in branding the European glamourpuss "guilty" she had the staunch support of her ex-husband Andy, who fervently believed she was telling the truth. He even said so on stand, much to the astonishment of the courtroom.

In Claudine's favor, the trial ended up being botched. Dim-witted policemen mishandled evidence, making the most damning clues inadmissible in court. Among the mishandled evidence included a blood test proving Claudine had been under the influence of cocaine during the shooting and her diary, which documented her troubled relationship with the famous athlete.

With those two pieces of circumstantiial evidence thrown out, the prosecuting attorney didn't stand a chance of hanging her for murder. Claudine was merely found guilty of criminally negligent homicide and issued to spend 30 days in county jail. Spider's family was disgusted with the verdict.

As if that wasn't enough, Claudine shocked the world even further by jumping into a steamy affair with her married defense attorney, Ron Austin. The two wed in 1985 and still reside in Aspen today.

Despite her tarnished reputation, Claudine is considered a musical legend. Her catchy pop songs and heart wrenching ballads are still popular today. More and more young people are buying her albums.

And then there are people who continue to fall in love with Claudine the minute she smiles on film with shy uncertainty, gazing up with her big doe eyes, and it's easy to understand why Andy Williams came to a screeching halt that sunny afternoon on the Las Vegas strip.

What do you think of Claudine?

My Favorite (Fake) Hollywood Couples

I'm bored with most of the celeb couples who exist today.

Aren't you tired of Brangelina and their generic over-the-counter version?

Or, Justin Timberlake and that girl from 7th Heaven?

I'm yawning already.

I've decided to play Hollywood matchmaker. Call me Cupid. Call me crazy. Call me maybe. I don't care.

These people need to hook up immediately, or nobody gets their money back.

Amy Poehler & George Clooney

When I saw these two canoodling at the Golden Globes a couple weeks ago, I couldn't have been the only person who shouted, "YES!"

These two are perfect for each other. She's adorable. He's adorable. They need to be adorable together.

With his suave, Cary Grant demeanor and her charming sense of humor, they would be the couple everyone wants to be. They would be the couple everyone wants to be around.

And Amy is SO much more fabulous than the latest faceless blonde George Clooney always has by his side. Let's be real.

Lindsay Lohan & Charlie Sheen

They sleep together on the big screen, but perhaps they should be more intimate in real life. After all, they're both fucking crazy. So, they clearly have a lot in common.

I think they would understand each other in a way no one else in the world ever could. Plus, Charlie clearly likes her already, otherwise he wouldn't have spent $100K paying off some of her debts.

If they're both going to be ticking time bombs, why not just put them together and let them explode simultaneously. It would be like ripping off a Band-Aid.

Ben Affleck & Matt Damon

Most of you are probably shocked right now, with your mouth hanging open. "But Jennifer," you say, "I thought Matt and Ben were ALREADY a couple!"

No, my children. Believe it or not, these two claim to just be best friends. Seriously. They're NOT dating!

Yet.

Taylor Swift & Marilyn Manson

Taylor has had her heart broken by teen idols, who may or may not be gay in real life. Joe Jonas. Taylor Lautner. Harry Styles. Maybe it's time she started sleeping with someone who eats pretty boys for breakfast.

I think if Taylor dated this scary fuck, she'd grow up real fast. Her parents would hate him. She would start dressing goth. Can you imagine the songs that would develp out of this relationship? They'd be weird. Just weird enough that it could re-charge her career and open her up to a whole new audience.

Or fling her fame into oblivion like Manson exes Rose McGowan and Evan Rachel Wood...

Emma Stone & Ryan Gosling

Okay, jokes aside, I'm totally serious about this couple. I know Emma is dating that British kid and Ryan is with that older woman, but they need to ditch those squares and make a circle together.

Their chemistry sparks in Crazy, Stupid, Love and Gangster Squad. They look so good together.

And Emma is the only girl who I would not hate for dating Ryan Gosling. Because if I can't have him, I want her to take my place. I am that selfless.


What do you think of these celebrity couples?