Jessy Delfino's Blog

LONG TIME NO BLOG

The Film Issue of L Magazine came out, so pick up a copy and turn to page 12/13 for Caustic to read my essay about how New York is the same shitty city it's always been. I wonder if y'all agree with my points? I love the pull quote from the article that was used, it makes me want to kiss Jonny Diamond - a great editor, by the way. It is:

"Who cares if 'freaks' shot up in bathrooms? They still do! That's not urban decay, that's good manners.

I like people with guts.

As is typical, my opponent in debate Adam Bonislawski drew attention away from my argument by shining attention onto my physical appearance, by use of the phrase, "the lovely Ms. Delfino." I'm no feminist, and I love compliments, believe me, flattery WILL get you totally laid by me, but I hate when my looks are used in association with anything I make, write, or create. I know I'm a cutie pie, but I'm not cuter than I am smart. The age old question comes to mind, or maybe it's not age old, but it's a question I've been asked before, and maybe you have, too. If you could have any of the following, which would it be? Great looks, a huge bank account or a very high IQ?

I would definitely choose a high IQ, because with brains, you can get money and dates. With looks, you can get money and dates too, but you will always be chastised, and with money, you can get dates and brains, I guess, (is there such a thing as plastic surgery for an ugly brain? I dunno...) but you will always be used for your money, and I truly believe no one will ever love you. But some might argue that no one will truly ever love anyone.

It is thanks to my tremendous IQ that I have the piddly amount of anything that I have currently. No thanks to money, and I've got plenty of it in my family, but all my rich relatives are greedy self-serving assholes, and no thanks to my good looks, they haven't gotten me too much more than a shit load of trouble, and my looks will expire, and before too long.

I don't hold it against Adam, however. Perhaps he was only mocking me, I'd appreciate a wily attempt at mockery before I'd credit him for his observational skills. Not to mention, my photo aside the essay is hideous, I look either pissed, driven or self-righteous, none of which I was when the photo was shot. So maybe he was certainly mocking me, or me and whoever chose the photo. But I've never been incredibly photogenic. My looks are only good in person, I think, and I have one of those changing faces that varies due to any number of factors, including hallucinogenic drugs, sunlight, sleep deprivation or too much sleep, lumps in my pillow, stress, anger, hapiness, and what have us all.

I'd like to say, I am quite happy with my physical appearance, and not because I think I'm so hot. It's because I can accept the way that I look. I don't see reflections in the mirror and cry or count the days until surgery is mine. But while we're on the topic, I do, have some complaints, which I have filed with God. If you care to read more, then these are a few of the problems I have with my physical appearance:

For starters, I have a few wierd eye moles that are horribly reminiscent of my mother's eyes, which are horribly reminiscent of my Uncle Charles and Aunt Charlene's eyes, which are horribly reminiscent of Charlie Manson's eyes. Google a photo of my mother if you don't believe me. She looks just like me, if I looked more like Charles Manson. Right now, the moles are cute and unassuming, but someday, oh, you just wait and see some day. Some day, my moles will have babies and collect a few sun spot friends and maybe some pimple scars and before I know it, I'll have a galaxy of eye dots. Just you wait and see. Provided I live to be old.

Next - big butt. I've never liked my big butt. Whenever I lose or gain weight, which happens often, because I am an eater as well as a serious carb and chocolate junkie who also happens to have a relentless conscience, it goes and comes straight to and from my ass and legs, as if delivered by a shipping company via overnight express. I swear to you. Call me crazy again, you probably have once already, but when I go to sleep after having eaten a snack, like a chocolate cake or what have you, the next morning I wake up and I can SEE that fucking chocolate cake, parked on my hips. Luckily for me, a bike ride will promptly remove said chocolate cake. I know that will only last until I am 30, and then the chocolate cake will get one of those tire boots and it won't be going no where, no how, bike ride or not.

I have fucking adult acne, god dammit. I thought that we were supposed to stop getting pimples after age 18 or whatever, but my friend told me she read that was a fallacy, probably invented by the jew-run media. She said that I should try Irish Spring, because Clinique just wants me to get more pimples so they can sell me more Clinique. Sounds believable. It seems like the adult acne has been getting worse lately, because I had no pimples from about age 18 until about six months ago, when Kurt and I broke up. I started getting them a lot more for some reason, and I could attribute them to stress, or eating tons of junk food all winter long, but where the fuck were they last winter then? Huh? Hmmmm?????

Jeez, I could go on and on. My boyfriend informed me a few months ago that my toes look like old republicans. I probably believe that. So, add it to the list. (I'm incredibly suggestible.)

What else? Oh, my teeth are wierd. When I was five or six, our family took a trip up to Maine (before we lived there) and my dad took me out in the motor boat. We were in the weeds fishing, in about three feet of brackish water. I was wearing a life jacket and sitting on the side of the boat, enjoying the sun and being with my dad. He said, "Hey, Jess, wanna go swimming?" I jumped up, excited, nodding my head, eager, trusting, naive, adorable, bright eyed, not yet jaded, oblivious to the fact that authority figures are not ever to be trusted. He pushed me off the boat in one swift shove, and I smacked my face into the side of the boat. What an idiot he is. I was scared of leaches and started freaking out and waving my hands furiously and crying. He pulled me out and slapped me to calm me down. I noticed at that time that my tooth felt wierd. I showed it to him and he seemed glad, in a way, that my front tooth had been chipped so viciously, it almost looked like half a tooth. Now, I was even more like the son he'd always wanted but never got to have, the son I'd be playing the role of for the rest of my developmental years, for as long as I lived in his house.
He let it stay like that. I didn't get braces. I didn't get a dentist visit. About a year or so later, it developed into an abscess, a big bloody blister on my gum above my front tooth. Then I was taken to the dentist. He gave me darvocet (yeah!!!) and I got to miss a few days of school. The abscess eventually popped, but it bothered me for years and sometimes would re-blister, aching and popping and stinging when I ate for most of my formulative years. When I was about 12, my real father came to visit. He took me to the dentist to get my tooth actually fixed. The dentist gave me a shitty fill in that was a different shade of white then the rest of my teeth and I felt like even more of an ugly retarded boy. I kept old brownie for years. What else could I do? I had a hard time smiling, I felt increasingly self-aware and insecure and I'm sure it only added to the neurotic mess I am today. I even had to get a route canal at age 20 because of all the trouble it was causing. Eventually, I got a job working at Banana Republic when I was in college in Philadelphia. I was pulling these clear sheets of film off of plexiglas squares for a display I was putting together when one of the squares got away from me and cracked me directly in the brown tooth. (It wasn't really 'brown' but compared to my other pearly "whites" it might have well been.) The manager insisted I go to the dentist, and me, always a little resourceful sneaky opportunist, saw it as a way to get a new tooth. I told the dentist about my history with 'the tooth' (I'm going to write a horror film and call it that) and he agreed we should just replace it and put it on Banana Republic's tab. At first, he made me this horrible replacement that would have to suffice while the main nice one was being generated on a special tooth computer in a lab in Sweden. The temporary one looked exactly like a chiclet and I was so horrified when I looked in the mirror, I started crying. It was just typical of my life. It represented me getting shitted on whenever I tried to make something good happen. I kept the block tooth for a week and refused to smile open mouthed and talked very little. After forever, the special nice tooth was finally done and he put it in. That is the special shiny nice tooth that I still have today. If you look at my front teeth, you might notice a variation in the color - one is real, and has been worn and used and abused for 27 years. But the other is shiny white. As I mentioned before, it was made in a special (read:expensive) lab in Sweden, generated by a computer using the exact dimensions of my actual tooth (had the real one never been chipped) and created to reflect and deflect light in the exact same way as a real tooth. It is made of porcelain - the same thing they use to make toilets.

And that's the story of the tooth.

Well, I guess that's all for now. I have butt loads of other problems with my physical appearance, including but not limited to flat feet, a face that is slightly misshapen, (uneven) a big mole on my neck, vericose veins in the making, (soon they'll be all grown up!) bent, crooked fingers, cellulite, and much, much more! But I have a lot of things that I love about my body, such as my long, graceful neck, my elegant collarbone (makes me look like royalty...and I am related to Charlemagne) I also like my eyes, they are okay, and my boyfriend likes my big bottom lip a lot, so that's cool, I like that my legs are long and that my stomach stays relentlessly flat, no matter how big my ass gets, and my tits, I never cared for them or against them, they just exist, so that's okay, I also like my smooth, round shoulders and my shapely hips and back...I guess I have nice hair, at least that's what the hair stylists tell me (the ones that don't find lice in my hair when they're cutting it - that's a true story which I will tell another time.)

I guess in closing, beauty is what you make of it. It's like in movies when they add glasses to the "ugly" girl then take them off and all of a sudden, she's pretty! It wasn't the glasses that were making her ugly, it was the asses.