In V Magazine’s January issue, Lena Dunham said, “I think we can all agree with the idea that the beautiful girls that get all the boys get written about. They don’t usually write.” It’s rather stereotypical–though I am almost certain not intentionally–and the perfect blend of smart and beautiful sure does exist (in exces)s but I’d argue the precise girl Dunham describes (because, she exists too and that shouldn’t be shadowed), also doesn’t usually have to cultivate much eccentric personality for the same reason female protagonists since the beginning of time have conjectured that devastatingly attractive men are never good in bed: because they never had to be.
I was 30 pounds heavier than I am now until the time I was 17 and in the years preceding true teenage-hood, I learned about the fantasy of crude behavior and how astutely words like ass brain and fuckin’ with no ‘g’ could elevate my diction thus actualizing whatever I’ve become, which, arguably is a Ty branded platypus. There’s an entire chapter in my forthcoming book of essays dedicated to the experience though, so I choose to quit before I’ve officially fallen behind.
The article on Dunham is worth a thorough read if only because she bears–in addition to my undying loyalty to her existence at large–that same brand of Didion-esque empathetic intellect that tends to make me feel like I too, have profoundly evocative thoughts and unanimously (no matter how unilateral they may be) constructive, relatable (why isn’t this a word yet?) ideas. When I’m able to step away, it’s rather obvious that what I’m thinking is simply a regurgitation of what my far smarter forebears have already said, but who cares? A thought is a thought no matter its author.
And it is during moments like this one when I am considerably proud to anchor a vagina, which I think works perfectly with the source that incited that sentiment, (see: V). To that note, I would also totally go gay for Lena Dunham.
So there, now you know everything there is to know about me.
