C was telling me about the new girl, exclaiming about how young she was.
C: I thought you were a baby but after I’ve seen her I said “My God! This girl is so young!” She’s even younger than you!
Me: How old is she?
C: Around 22.
Me: I just turned 22.
*insert awkward moment here*
C: Er… You just look so much more grown up.
(I have a running romance with YM emoticons.)
My lips are rebelling. They’re even dryer than a farmer’s field during El Nino. I probably consume more lip balm than any other being on earth (including pigs, who get sunburn).
Essentially, what is my life? I’m tempted to go all Kundera here and say that it is, in spirit, kitsch. But isn’t everyone’s life kitsch? We all try to run away from it. Young people in particular fear kitsch like the plague. Just ask any decent twenty-somthing young man or woman about their favorite singer of the moment and they will mention some cool alternative or rock band’s name: Incubus, Maroon5, The Killers, Coldplay… I could go on forever but you get the picture. Any decent yuppie who considers him/herself as cool would die before saying “Nina” or “Backstreet Boys” (*lol*). There is a certain image that once has to project, and “Love Moves in Mysterious Ways” does not exactly say cool-calm-professional-and-collected.
Now where was I? Oh yes, kitsch. I was saying that everyone avoids kitsch or tries to prove all their life that they are NOT kitsch and their lives can never be kitsch even if the situation calls for kitsch.
My favorite kitsch situation is of course: love. There is something about that word that fascinates me, especially when I see the way everyone reacts the moment after it is said out loud. Everyone has a love story, and the most famous are always the kitschiest ones, which is how they got so popular in the first place. Romantic can almost never be cool–even in the most fashionable and wittiest exchanges, there is a thick layer of kitsch lying underneath. The basic premise of love is kitsch, and it amuses me to see other people trying to deny that fact, whether they realize it or not (*cough*friendstersurveys*cough*). Even beauty is kitsch.
I am, myself, guilty of this. Many times over in different situations for various reasons. At present, I’ve developed a grudging admiration for people who embrace the reality of kitsch. Though I’d die before getting out of my (safe) closet of k00l, at least I know that they are being quite honest about themselves.
But what the heck. Life is kitsch and we should all embrace it. We’re all f*ckin’ kitsch! Hahaha! Even Lestat knows this, and he’s been trying to attain the ultimate k00lness of k00l for all his over-extended life.
(Does anyone have a spare straitjacket lying around?)
So what am I trying to say? Don’t you get it? I’ve tried to explain the kitschiest admission in the most un-kitsch way possible. And if you got it, then tell me because I’m including practicing the art of couteous kitsch in my resume.
Damn. I probably caused a couple of headaches. =D This calls for a new layout.