Sometimes I want to burn Accidentally Sexy to the ground. Kill her off.
I don't know if I even remember how to not be this person.
In a lot of ways, Accidentally Sexy is a wall that I can hide behind. This girl who's never felt like she was beautiful or good enough, whose self esteem teeters along on a constant tightrope, whose confidence is so battered and torn that it waves like a flag in the Civil War.
Because Accidentally Sexy is not a real person, people, especially men, seem to have a lot less guilt about not listening to anything she says or worrying about how she might feel. It's like they forget that Ana is a real person and that she's really feeling these things. Or is it me that forgot?
Accidentally Sexy is at both times an exaggeration of me and a total censorship of me. You build yourself into this glass case and then realize you forgot to leave air holes. It's weird when your "fame" kinda relies on you staying single. I don't want to stay single. I've always said that this is a blog that talks about everything that it means to be a girl living in the city. Yet, being in any way branded as a "dating blogger" puts you in a very specific bucket of public assumptions. I'm not even the public diary/kiss-and-tell dating blogger. I write about themes and topics as I personally work to learn more about them.
I was relaying the totally messed up highlights from a recent misadventure to my friend, Lindsay Baish. I had one of the weirdest nights last night. I had to keep reminding myself that it wasn't a movie. It was my life. Lindsay took the opportunity to give me some hard facts the way only Baish can.
So. WTF am I supposed to do?
Accidentally Sexy has been such a big part of my identity for the last four years. The name is catchy, grabs attention and has opened a lot of doors, but it lacks accountability for ones own sexiness. It's somewhat powerless. Maybe Accidentally Sexy is the cocoon I've begun to outgrown.
Let's take a look at some recent incidents, shall we?
- There's the famous DJ who sent me a Snapchat video of two topless women who are clearly f'd up out of their minds. One is counting money. Someone in the background is talking about how they should all go to Gathering of the Juggalos. Ah...romance.
- There's the other DJ and scenester who sent me a picture of his tv, I sent a picture of a flower, he sent me a shirtless pic and I sent a "thanks, but no thanks" message. Fast forward to the next week, sends me a pic of his dick. Out of the blue. Once again, I said "thanks, but no thanks." When we're somewhere at the same time, however... Doesn't even try to approach me.
- There's the So Rich I Don't Need A Job dude who sends me sexy photos of himself...and then also sends them to my gay friend.
- The stranger that DMs me on Twitter to say that they are "at my command." Okay.
And this is the entirety of their "courting" behaviors. None of these guys has taken me on a date. Most of them I've never had a real in-person conversation with...just a few words in a crowded room. I don't even write anything that would lead people to believe that I'm some sort of easy woman. I guess I have the word sexy in my name, but daggum!
It's either the guy going way over the top in hopes that I'll mention him on Twitter or the guy, who won't speak to me when we're in the same room, but will send me unsolicited dick pics. They want my attention and approval before moving onto genuine romantic pursuits. And I honestly feel lost sometimes. Like I don't even know how to change this cycle. I want to burn it to the ground. Is the thing that I love most of all keeping me from finding someone that I will love most of all?
The people who read this blog are amazing. I feel like we have gone through so much together. Whenever a little message from a fan arrives in my Facebook inbox or email, it fills me with more joy and satisfaction that I could ever describe. The fact that I could give people hope in their hard times, inspire someone to do better or make you laugh is the greatest privilege anyone could have. That is the reason I write this blog.
If Lindsay is right, however, I'm stuck in a Catch-22.
PMA. My heart hurts.