June 20, 2000

It is so old and tired and lame to be in love with Janeane Garofalo, but I just can't help it. Every word out of her mouth is milk chocolate. She thinks the way I think, only faster, funnier, smarter. She speaks in a perfect blend of sarcasm, irony, humor, and honesty. Also, not that it matters in the slightest, but she's beyond beautiful. Those lips that smile. Those eyes that wink. Jesus. I would eat my cat to be able to be her. You see? She would never say anything remotely like that, and if she did, it would be brilliant and witty, whereas I am just pathetic. That is why she is better and I am worse.

I am watching The Truth About Cats and Dogs right now, because it is on, and that is basically the only criterion I have for my evening television. I've seen it before, and it pissed me off. Seeing it again is having a similar effect. She is not the ugly one. SHE IS NOT THE UGLY ONE! How she could be perceived as ugly in this or any other alternative universe is intrinsically beyond me. But it's not just that. It's not just that Uma is a horse and Janeane is an angel. It's that the whole theme of the movie -- that men almost always dig a pretty face over a slammin' personality -- hits a little too close to home. I mean, sure, if the ugly girl is Janeane, then you'll take her. But what if the ugly girl is, say…Linda Tripp, pre-plastic surgery? If the ugly girl is Linda Tripp, then suddenly that sense of humor isn't quite so important.

Gee, you think I have some issues, maybe?

It's just…it's just that no matter how beautiful you are, I think every woman thinks she is, to some extent, the ugly one. Even if most of the time they know that's a crock of shit, because, well, look at them. But sometimes…sometimes. One my best friends is stereotypically gorgeous: blond hair, blue eyes, size 2 -- 4 on a "fat day". She tans easily and evenly, knows how to dress sexy but not slutty, and her body hair is invisible, nay, nonexistent. Despite all her enviable physical attributes, she still thinks she needs fixing. She has, you see, small breasts. Oh, the horror. Small, small breasts. Which, of course, fit the size and shape of her body perfectly. But still, they are small. And so, she dreams of having them stuffed like a turkey. If she had the money, she would do it in a heartbeat.

She says she wouldn't do it for anyone but herself, and I believe that, mostly because I can't envision anyone actually asking her to. But why would she feel the need to do it for herself? "Because I want to look better in clothes," she says. It is times like these that I want to throttle her. She walks in beauty like the bloody night.

I hate that she thinks that having bigger breasts equals "looking better," even though I totally know what she's talking about. Clothes seem to hang better on certain figures. But why is the way they hang considered "better"? Oh god oh god oh god. I am becoming marvelously adept at depressing myself.

So, instead of continuing down this decidedly unprimrose-like path, I will briefly mention how much joy it brings me that the Lakers are about to close out the series with the Pacers. As in, they will win the championship. More importantly, Indiana will lose. There are 2.5 seconds left in the game, and Indiana is down by 3. Kobe just hit a free throw. Indiana down by four. Make it five. Where's your ring now, Reggie Miller? Where's your goddamn ring?!

I'm sorry. I'm sorry I didn't stick with the whole body image thing, but it was just too much. If the Knicks were playing -- if the Knicks were losing -- I would've started out talking about that, and then, to soothe my aching heart, I would've changed the subject to the abysmal state of women's self esteem. But tonight, the game is an afterthought for me. And now it is over. The Lakers won. No more basketball for four months. You will not hear about it from me for four freakin' months.

I am depressed again.

But, wait. Indiana lost.

Suddenly, happy.

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