Lydia's Lament

I want to be the

one

that grabs your

attention.

When you're surrounded

by all those

others

(it only, slightly, kinda bothers me)

When I walk up

let you

eyes & mind

feast on me.

Wrap your arms

around me

focus on me.

only think of me.

It might be selfish.

I don't

really

care.

If you think you're deserve

me.

If you think you're entitled

to my mind, body, soul.

Then I can have

stipulations.

That's just

the way it is.

Do & go wherever you want;

keep me in the loop.

Surrounded yourself with whores

-but relocate the focus

when I emerge.

respect me.

love me.

care for me.

it's nothing i wouldn't do for you.

it's nothing i don't do for you.

just a thought, really.

Big Butt and High Waist

Ol’ Faithful. That’s what I am.

Keep me tucked in the back drawer,

Clearly you’re embarrassed.

I’m never there when you’re having fun

-But I’d like to be.

You only drag me out, when no one else is

there.

I’m stuck with the gross jobs.

I am the Granny Panty. I’m worn on long flights, ugly days, as a last resort, and during the detestable period… yeah, I went there.

It seems like everyone I know has a “go-to” granny panty friend; you know, the one Victoria calls every time someone tells her secrets or the one Betsy calls every time she can’t find her Johnson.

Frankly, I’m tired of being the Granny Panty. I don’t want to be called just to pick your hott ass up -when you’re skizzered somewhere on Hollywood Blvd. I don’t want to be called to just “hang out” when it’s convenient for you because you’ve been ditched. I want to be invited to go clubbing. I want to be pulled out of the drawer first, with the pretty lacy things –not crinkled in the corner (waiting for your next menstrual cycle).

But at least I can recognize myself as a Granny Panty.

I’m not one of the naïve ladies looking blankly into the mirror trying to convince myself with a mental conversation/mantra/monologue of, “I’m such a good friend! They’d so be there for me.”

Ignorance is bliss right?  Cough, cough. 

Savvy Sue, Baby, What you up to?

Here’s my question: What was Eve Ensler thinking when she started writing the first monologue for The Vagina Monologues? I’m basically one hundred and twenty percent sure that she didn’t just wake up one sunny morning with her vagina speaking to her; I’m basing this off the fact that my vagina has never spoken to me. I reckon that what really happened was that she was moved to write about the plight of women today. But real talk, who other than the angry middle aged female would want to sit and soberly listen to that? When my girlfriends and I discuss our woes and those of other women in the world it involves wine and tequila. So home-girl got clever.

Mama Ensler inspired me.

I am only twenty, but I can do this. Not alone. But that’s what my friends are for, if I can’t fabricate a story via my panty tales than I’ll borrow from a friend’s real life experiences.  

So my goal: to take a whack at creative realism.

It’s going to be a comical, emotional, and naturally, crass ride.