Lex Jurgen - September 19, 2015
The headline read, Lena Dunham shares distressing Instagram post. You had to figure it was the attached image of the large lady from the circus in a blind selfie stupor. But, no, it turns out Dunham left a cryptic message about how hard it is to be doughy and annoying and super modestly talented and still be wealthy and lauded around Manhattan and served the gluten-free pasta at fancy restaurants because everybody who went to prep school wants to see you thrive.
TBH this was a rough week. It felt like my body, my hormones, my general sense of well-being were betraying me. I wanted to crumple into a pile or hide like a sweatshirt in the lost and found. And I felt as though there wasn't a way to ask for the space and time I needed without hurting someone else. What a shitty feeling, but isn't that the reality for so many of us?"
I appreciate the tag at the end to pretend you care about anybody else. Dunham's lockstep cheesecake bites army of supporters buoyed her emotionally obese spirits with tons of blankly supportive responses. I wish I could feel compassion like that, so easily and without thought.
I can't work around these disturbing underwear selfies. I find sympathy difficult when my ball sac is scrunching up like the world's most anxious turtle. Go to that lost and found and find yourself an oversized sweatshirt, stop sharing self-indulgent tales of fingering your little sister for fun and profit, drop ten lbs., and wipe that shit eating stupid off your face. Then the healing begins.
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