Pink
This is from a couple of years ago when I was working on “Dear Stranger” as a thesis project at parsons.
I forgot how much time you spend pretending to be something other than what you are when you actually have a social life. I am beginning to resent people for being around. For asking me out to dinner and scowling if I just order a coffee.
Today my thesis teacher was going through the sketches for my “Dear Stranger” book, and she got to a page where the text is:
“I spent weeks starving myself to compete with her
convinced it was the only things she had over me
when he saw me he grasped my hip bone where the fat used to be
looked at me dissaprovingly.”And she flinched at it, started to respond to it but backed off and decided to pretend it wasn’t there.
She wants me to make the book blue because it’s so melancholy.
I told her that I’d rather make it pink.
Pink for the women who know how to pretend that everything is ok when they’re falling apart.
The women who don’t wear black and grey to tell the world they want to die, but still wake up wishing they had.Everyone knows that blue is the color of sadness.
It’s a cliche. It’s not real.
When I feel the worst I always wear a dress with flowers on it.
And I paint my nails pink.That’s my color for sadness.
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