And the moral of the story is…

Please note that certain names have been changed to protect all living persons.

The story starts like this:

There is a phone call. A big ass suitcase. A plane ride.

Your mind buzzes (how could he how could he how could he) painfully (how could he not believe you) the entire trip (Lolita liar attention-seeking whore) so you flirt extra hard for any form of alcohol that almost dulls the pain.

(The moral: The journey is too short and it takes something more than a new country to wash away the aftertaste of betrayal.)

After settling in (unpacking takes two weeks because you just don’t care anymore), you turn on your phone. There are 5 missed calls from Kevin, 9 from Luis, 27 from Brian, along with 17 voicemails.

(Nothing from *him*.)

You throw your cell in the trash.

(The moral: You fish it out an hour later.)

At boarding school, nothing changes. You sleep (less), dance (more) and ignore the train wreck that is the story of your life (as you always do).

Your period comes on time i.e. as irregular as ever.

(The moral: Someday, somehow, somewhere, sometime, you’ll find some constancy; you’ll be the heroine of your very own tragic story.)

You drink a lot of Absinthe – at parties, or otherwise (call it whatever you want; you don’t need an excuse to drink anymore). It was never that appealing before, but now you like it because even though it’s not shiny, the colors swirl in your vision, and sometimes the colors solidify and form into Kevin, Luis, or Brian.

(The moral: You left them, but they’ll never leave you.)

A cute boy walks up to you while you’re looking for a birthday card for *him* out of pure habit.

“Hey,” he says, “Can I help you?”

You’re not sure what to say (“Yes, can you help me find a card that says “Sorry I accidentally seduced my 23-year old cousin whilst being underage and wrecked our family because you didn’t believe me, BTW, HAPPY BIRTHDAY DAD!), so you just smile and say “No thanks,” and buy something random off the shelf that you burn that night.

(The moral: The card you picked had read “Another year older, another year wiser.”)

One night you dream.

Kevin fixes you, *he* forgives you, Brian loves you, and you are the same.

You wake up and throw up twice because you feel like your chest is going to explode.

(The moral: In your nightmares, Kevin has walked away, *he* still doesn’t care, Brian is married with a kid named Rachel, and you are the same. Your nightmares are your reality.)

You try LSD.

Just once. (Too many times.)

You try LSD and Brian stands in front of you, his face disapproving, but his hands stretched out toward you to take the danger away – “Oh Rae, when will you ever learn?”

You feel like your smile might split your face in two, so you reach out and –

There’s nothing there.

(The moral: You never try LSD again.)

Luis is nice and smart and does your Spanish homework for you because you’re too busy in exchange for make-out sessions that aren’t even that good. You tell him that you don’t want anything serious, he tells you that he understands. Then you bring him to a party and he is introduced to some pills whilst you were dancing and it’s all downhill from there.

(The moral: So you ruin his life, so what? He can get in line with all the others.)

Peter is there and he’s sweet and mature (with a shaved head, athletic body, and too much brains for anyone’s good), and you’re pretty sure you might be in love with him (or as in love as you’ll ever allow herself to be again). Fate gives you close living proximity, dances in the classroom, songs in the rain, coffee on lazy Sunday afternoons.

But then you realize that this is so wrong so you fuck it up tremendously and you’re not even surprised.

(The moral: You can’t blame the man, sometimes you still think you might love him – you just tend to run headfirst into any guy to heal your wounded heart from a cousin who wronged you, and a father who didn’t believe you.)

The story ends like this:

There is a phone call. A big ass suitcase. A plane ride. (Back to square one.)

Your mind buzzes (how could you how could you how could you), painfully again (how could you leave her, leave your mother with that man?). This time, the trip is too long. You think too much and don’t drink at all.

Mom saved you, albeit unwillingly, and the thought bounces around her head until you get a migraine. Mom saved you and paid for it with her freedom. As the plane slows to a stop at JFK, you decide that you’re never going to need saving again.

(There is no moral here, but we all know how well that turns out.)

Life is hard, but you try, you try, you try.

(The moral: You fail, you fail, you fail.)

If you’re an aspiring artiste…

You probably shouldn’t read this.

I’m kidding.

Being that I’m not pretty/tall/skinny/PERFECT enough, I really don’t have the right to write (got to LOVE homonyms) about this, but working backstage has given me valuable insight into the entertainment industry.

ACTORS/ACTRESSES:

Please don’t lose yourself. To become an actor (one whose income doesn’t require a second job) is virtually impossible because there are SO many people who want to break into the business. For every YOU, there are at least 20 000 younger, better-looking, more talented actors who are just waiting for their big break. I’m not being cynical, just realistic. But the fact is, if you work for it, you’ll get your due. And if you are as good as you are (and I know you are), they’d be silly not to want you, and you don’t want to work for someone who doesn’t realize your worth. And don’t ever compromise your pride, unless it’s something you want to do, because you’ll never be able to get it back. And always remember, REACT, ACT, but DON’T OVERACT. Not everything in life is a telenovela. (I love them really, they’re SO scandalous…)

DANCERS:

Your body is your temple. No, really. Most of us think we can eat whatever after the late night performances (greasy MacD’s, anyone?) or skip the warmup/cooldown, but in the long run, you’re only hurting yourself. Although you should be primarily good at one/two dance styles, it’s important to try the rest as well, so that you are more bookable. I know it’s always a worry that you’ll look like you might be having an electrical spasm attack or like an octopus on ice-skates, but the truth is, I’m as serious as cancer when I say rhythm is a dancer (I don’t know who said this. It was in some song. Shocking, I know) and MY LOVES YOU HAVE IT. I’ll leave you with a quote that has been my favorite for a REALLY long time: La danse, c’est le mouvement, et le mouvement, c’est la vie. Dance is movement, and movement is life.

DESIGNERS (Be this web or fashion):

Without you, we wouldn’t exist. But it is also ludicrously difficult to get recognized. The best thing to do is get to know models or promoters. Have them wear your garments, so that they’re SEEN. Getting in touch with event organizers who put on fashion shows would also be a good idea. Think about your market. Haute couture or high street? Because I know a few designers and though I love them ALL, not only can I not afford their work (even though I’d probably sell my soul to be able to), but sometimes I wonder whether I can REALLY pull off a full jumpsuit, back-combed hair, and 10-inch platforms. (I’m not singling anyone out here, I’m just saying.) If you’re a web designer, if you have any high profile friends, offer to design their websites. Recognition is the easiest way to obtain jobs. Don’t spend your entire life on it, just something that shows off your skill. I guess the thing is to KNOW YOUR MARKET, and then MARKET MARKET MARKET! … That’s a lot of marketing.

MODELS:

For heaven’s sake, you’re all so beautiful it makes the rest of us mortals want to cry. Or get on our knees and worship you. So if you EVER come across an “agent” who tells you that your photos are not acceptable for the web portfolio they want to display you on, or that you don’t really have “the look” they want, ASK WHY. Chances are, it will be because they want you to pay them to have an entirely new set of (shockingly taken – in the bad way) photos that do not show off your versatility at all or for them to make you into something you’re not. And if for a second you believe that you’re fat, then the rest of us mere mortals are not just obese, we’re actually animals. Of the hippopotamus kind.

PHOTOGRAPHERS:

ALWAYS KEEP AN EYE ON YOUR EQUIPMENT! Uhm, I don’t mean the one concealed beneath clothes. I remember someone’s camera equipment being stolen at London Fashion Week (if you’re reading this, don’t worry, I’m not going to mention your name, because I don’t actually remember who it was) and I know this goes without saying, but you’re only worth as much as your equipment (and yes, that does include your portfolio). Also, top models don’t work TFCD unless you have an amazing ass portfolio or lots of green (though I suppose the color varies from country to country), so don’t even try it. Just ask Heidi or Gisele.

SINGERS:

Maybe you have the voice of the gods/goddesses. But we all know the industry is all about image, and character. Because music can be illegally downloaded, but CHARACTER can’t. So unless you’re all out crazy, or the girl/boy-next-door that everyone secretly loves, or you sound like Susan Boyle and look like Gisele Bundchen (that was a REALLY strange mental image then), the true path to success is creating a character. If you’re tone deaf, no matter what character you develop, it might be a struggle because I don’t really know who would want to turn the radio on and have their eardrums tortured.

I think that’s about it. If I’ve missed a category, please let me know, and I shall rectify it immediately. And again, I would like to stress that I don’t really have the right to give advice in this area, but humor me. You might learn something. If not, you can wholeheartedly agree/disagree, and I’d be happy to discuss it. Any recommendations will be added and credited.

XxX

Rae

Facebook Friends, this is for you.

Everyone seems to be writing a blog these days. Whether it’s filled with angst, wit or bumbling buffoon babble, it doesn’t really seem to matter. Since I’m supposed to be fashionable, and I do aspire to be a journalist at some point in my life, I figured I better start again. Yes, again.

I used to have a blog, but sometime between the 3 years I had not bothered to log in, WordPress kindly deleted it. That’s probably a good thing – I really don’t want to hear (read) the incoherent ramblings of my 16 year old self.

Now, as we are Facebook friends, and by definition this apparently means we should meet up for coffee, or have sexy time or get married, I thought I’d share some etiquette.

Please note, the word “my” actually refers to anyone you have as a friend, but for the sake of ease, I’m writing it from my perspective.

Firstly, unless we have 200 mutual friends in common, do not assume I know you. I barely even know myself. In fact, sometimes I look in the mirror and think, hey, look at the oompa loompa Chinese chick that kind of resembles the bride of Frankenstein! Why’s she copying exactly what I… OHMYGOD GET ME SOME MAKEUP!

Secondly, do not send messages like this: “hai… nice 2 mt u can meet up plz?” or “I want to **** you.” No one deserves to see that when they open their Facebook inbox. Except maybe the person who invented all those FB games like Farmville or Mafia Wars. (I’m kidding. I’m actually a huge fan of those games and have wasted hours of my life just clicking things that have technically no value in my life).

Thirdly, DO NOT randomly start adding my friends and spamming them with comments about how beautiful they are or “can b my fren?” Frankly, most of my friends are busier than I am, but are probably too nice to tell you.

Most importantly, do not comment on every single one of my photos. It’s very flattering, and I appreciate your support, but you can just “Like” or comment on a few, and I’d feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Like melted gummy bears. Excessive commenting is slightly stalkeresque, and really, I’m not sure anyone wants that.

The point of this post is, my dear friends, to say that I love you all. You’re all beautiful (and I hate you for it; I’m kidding, I don’t really) and if I didn’t want to get to know you, you wouldn’t be on my friends list.

But there are only so many things that are acceptable, even for me. So think about your Facebook actions. If you decide to randomly message someone, make sure that it’s something you wouldn’t mind receiving.

Yours always,

Rae