Self-love, Or The Nausea Of It Part 2
Self-love in this day and age.
I’m beginning to believe that the obsession over beauty and youth has made people wish that they die young so they could leave beautiful corpses of them. It’s the thought of spending afterlife in aged bodies that petrify them, and so as conscious as they are with their good looks they can’t think of a better bummer to an everlasting hedonism than to be old and fugly.
Sigh. Most, if not all, of my female co-humans are such a sad bunch. They are so eaten up by the machinations of society to the point that they don’t seem to be aware of it. They’ve become so besotted with modern-day media that are at best bulimia fodder. Piece of mind for these girls on the other hand means yoga: through “meditating” they attain total awareness… of themselves. Only of themselves, in fact, that ironically even the brewing cancer cells in their breasts they’re unaware of, because all they’re just focused on is how they could get them look more bigger to the eyes of men. And they sweat it out in gyms, not really open of the possibility that maybe it would be better if they just work out by doing practical chores so that the money that goes to their gym memberships they could make use instead for those people who need it most, for far more important things.
And no, they don’t really give studious thoughts as to how, for example, the red wine they drink got to its stage and how the salmons they oh so classically eat are caught by the fishermen. They just want their fucking antioxidants.
Today’s reeking of narcissism is such that a nauseating empire of consumerism has been built out of it.
“Rest assured that our beauty product/procedure/regimen is the fountain of youth, perfected on the anvils of the present-day alchemists for pulchritude… Now hand over to us first that, uh, dough, just to be clear about this…”
In denial of the glaring reality that no matter what they eat, slather or inject into their skins, these lovely females will still end up as smorgasbords for maggots. Or urns of fine ashes.
Everytime I get to unwittingly surrender myself to the sights and sounds of those vanity ads on tv, print and gargantuan billboards along thoroughfares, I can’t help but I feel ashamed of how this today’s society never fails to hit low. It’s not enough that its number one preoccupation is gossiping about celebrities and talking behind people’s back in an unwavering and no-blinking rate, it really has to add to its degenerate list its obsession of pondering upon the mirror for any imaginary imperfection. And in this case I’m not just talking about its female brick on the walls: its male beauty industry has actually been exploding for quite a long time now. In this country alone try to commit the mistake of strolling onto the crowd hubs of the various city districts and you won’t really find it a challenge to distinguish them from one another because they all march to the same beat: the female skinny and gymed-up, white-skinned, their tresses side-swept, in branded flip-flops or some other pricey shoewear, clothed along fashion directly in contrast to their financial capabilities, carrying signature bags that have really nothing in them. The males swagger on the other hand are pretty similar to that of the females: only the male version.
Actually they all look to me as high-class callboys.
And if there’s anyone today in this country who claims to be “different” as to how they present themselves, it’s only because they want attention. Oh look at me I’m avant–garde and deviant and all that bullcrap .
Our concept of beauty as a power is nothing but a defense mechanism, a veneer for our insecurities, failures and weaknesses, a cover-up on our true colors. In this country, people seem to adore nurturing themselves–but as a people whose trademark paranoia is that they are being looked down upon by the Joes and Janes of the West, so in a sort of “getting back” at them they wage psych wars against them thru shoving up their noses everything that is “naturally” and “culturally” beautiful about this country every chance they get. For example, all of a sudden our Filipinas are fine, hot, lovely, which is ironic when most of them have sought alabaster skins because their brains have been trained to think courtesy of the old Hollywood School of Thought that being morena, or basically anything unwhite is unattractive.
I bet the conviction behind such declarations blew up around the time when the Oxford dictionary started defining “Filipina” as “domestic helper”, “maid”. And look, all of a sudden too we’re very talented, hospitable, family-oriented, nationalistic… Mabuhay!
It’s by virtue of these “prides” of ours that we assume that the state of this country is sublime and moving forward. We are so proud of our proficiency in the English language because I bet that means we can tell off those imaginary oppressors of ours that hey yo, we’re the third largest English-speaking country in da world, dig it? And oh, by the way, it hasn’t really brought us closer to y’all guys–we’re still a Third World nation.
The issue really here is this: that we funny little island people, as we have been adoringly called by our international friends, have been made shallow by our excruciating insecurities. We brainwash ourselves into believing that what made the people we desire (eh, think Hollywood) famous and powerful is because of everything that they physically have that we don’t have, so what we came up to be our preferred solution to this twisted illusion of ours is to be… CLONES OF THEM. In mind, deed, tongue. Others may say that this is just some kind of an “identity overhaul” on our part, a way for us to not get left behind by the the ever-evolving world. Yup, going with the flow of trends, or else we won’t belong.
I expect a counter-attack from one or two Pinoys (yeah just a couple of them at most, they don’t read me), telling me how dare I speak evil of our race, just when everyone’s doing their part to wave the Filipino Pride. Oh god don’t even get me started with that. I don’t need to go around sucking their dick just so I could say I’m a proud Filipino. Heaven knows I’m proud to be Filipino. But I know the stench that this country has under its breath, and I am not gonna do it further disservice by milking senseless its “good side”, just like what every Filipino is right now doing simply because that’s what’s all the rage and you get some sort of social upgrade for that.