Warhead On Legs

I think I just helped an old man across the street. I've never done that before.

So, the Urban Outfitters down the street opened today. To a significant crowd and the temptation of me to go poke at their clothes and see if they have a good discount going on, but I doubt I will. If for no other reason than I really shouldn't be spending money like that now. The only reason I'm going jeans shopping in the immediate future is because I have a gift certificate, and so am spending someone else's money. Unfortunately, it's not to Urban Outfitters.

And along those lines, I'm not sure I want to go shopping at Urban Outfitters anyway. They have some skinny jeans in the window that are pretty ordinary, nice black jeans? I like the blouse they're under. Except, I've discovered something about myself. I don't look at the so-called skinny jeans they, at least, are advertising in the window and think, god I'm fat I want to fit into that. I look at these jeans and think, I could span that person's calf with my hands, almost. My hands. And I have tiny hands. And that person's, or at least the mannequin is, supposed to be taller than I am? That's not a fashion model, that's a poster child for starvation in third world countries.

So, no. No Urban Outfitters for me, not anytime soon. I'll be over here in the sane and healthy weight people's area, or the ones who are working towards that goal. With people who have muscle tone, maybe a thin layer of fat where areas do need a little padding, and who know it's not healthy to constantly worry about how much fat you're carrying either. With the people who know that rigid diet plans fail and as a general rule you should just not eat too many sweets or too much greasy fat-soaked food or anything you're allergic to. With the people who work out occasionally but don't worry about body sculpting (unless it's their job as a model or for a role as an actor or something) or freak out if they miss a workout. With the people who know that health and beauty is not the number you see on a scale. And, yes, with the people who are just naturally that thin. You know. The sane people.

Seriously, starvation-thin? Who the hell thought that was sexy? Eew. Just, no. I don't get it. Why is half the country dangerously obese because they don't pay a lick of attention to what they eat (or because they have other health problems, which might be scarier since those are probably on the rise, too) and another quarter sickening themselves with anorexia, bulemia, and the general idea that eating is a punishable offense and starving yourself is a fun thing to do? When did we, as a country, get so bad in our hearts and minds?

Anyway. I also got another rejection letter today, which no doubt has also made cranky. This one hit worse than the last one, I think in large part due to the phrasing of their little stock rejection card. "Due to the nature of the publishing industry today -- and the selectivity it requires -- we regret that we cannot consider you for publication." Fuck you too, you could at least have had the courtesy to tell me that in a damn personalized letter instead of on a fucking business card. Whatever happened to the way more polite "this does not meet our needs at this time", you had to tell me I'm not good enough? Fuck. You.

Sigh. I can't tell if I'm hurt and pissed off because of that or because, as adsartha suggests, it feels like a trend. On the other hand, that's the other New York firm. Two down, one to go? The third one is the one from two hours away, so we'll see. It still hurts.

Whatever. I still have an outline to finish, two fics to read over, one to write, and a few foreign language icons to make. I'm showing off this one from Run Lola Run.

Re-post this in your LJ if you know someone who has, had or has been affected by cancer.

I still miss you, Grandmama.



Also? I hate query letters. Hate. With a fiery vengeful passion. They are evil things and I hate them. I think I hate them even more after a year or two of having submitted them and gotten piles of rejection letters. Which I still have. Yay masochism? And now it just feels like I'm setting myself up for more of the same, and I hate that.

But, hell. I might as well, right? Nothing ventured, nothing gained. I may get rejected and not published but I definitely won't get published if I don't try.

I keep telling myself that. It only makes it marginally better.

I did go out today, we got some sundries for the house that we needed, like a new fan to replace the frillion years old one that finally died, and some tissues, and we stopped by a Walden books that was closing and got a few books at half off on sale. Including Angel: After the Fall graphic novel, Dresden Files graphic novel, and two Charlaine Harris Sookie Stackhouse books. What the hell, right? I also saw at least five other vampire mystery type books by people or about characters I'd never heard of. Man, the vampire area is so played out these days. So. Tired. Of vampires.

Right. I guess it's time to update my writing schedule, do some more work on writing, and... something. Try not to break down crying in anticipation of rejection letters I haven't even received yet. Okay, it's not that bad yet? But, man. I hate these stupid things.