What is Pretty?

Class, today we will be discussing a rather polarizing topic. What is pretty? We can all think back on our early years, and the hell of social acceptance, and the questions that would run through our developing minds. Am I thin enough? Am I muscular enough? Is my hair nice? Do I have enough money? Why does everyone love (insert name like Bryce or Madison) and not me? Did I remember to put on deodorant today? Why did my mom buy me these Macgregor shoes? I am going to get so much shit for these ugly things. Luckily, we get older, and what was once, I really hope no one picks on me today for these parachute pants, becomes, fuck it, I’m wearing parachute pants to the grocery store. *5 second delay. Sorry, I had a flashback of men wearing Philadelphia Eagles parachute pants, and it made me lose my train of thought. Oh, yes! What is pretty? Well, brace yourselves people, because we are going on a bumpy fucking ride.

I like weird things. I like oddballs. I like scars. I like noses that aren’t perfect. I like women, models or not, who are confident in their bodies, because it’s theirs. I like men who know that machismo has a time and a place, and it isn’t 24 fucking 7. I like cross-dressers who can work that look without giving two fucks what people think of them. I like things that sweat and work hard. I like families of 4, who don’t have a pot to piss in, but always make time for one another. I like books that are worn and have that “sat in your grandmother’s oak chest” kinda scent to them. I like finding properly made clothes at a second hand store. I like thinking about who wore the clothes before me, and what kind of crazy shit they got into together. Were these pants hanging on a chair during an Eyes Wide Shut-style orgy, where everyone’s wearing masks with animals holding cigars in their mouth? I like girls who can do squats like a champion, and don’t feel insecure if they aren’t acting feminine enough. I like roads that wind, and bridges that creak. I like rainy days. I like underdog stories. I like a boxer with swollen, bloody eyes, stunning his opponent with an out-of-nowhere right hook, and raising their hands in victory. I like people from the streets who don’t have a nickel to their name, but will give you the shirt off their back if you need it. I like red vines, not just twizzlers. I like shitty comedies, that don’t take themselves seriously. I like old cars with wood-paneling and a tape deck. I like tears of sincerity. I like passionate debate. I like rough sex. I like to hear the truth, even if it hurts. I like the prodigal son. I like Van Gogh’s view of the world.

Beauty isn’t just a rail-thin girl with big doe-eyes. Beauty isn’t just an Abercrombie model standing 6 ft 4″, who’s currently taking his summer off to play soccer in Brazil. Beauty is Johnny Cash screaming into a microphone as prisoners bob their heads. Beauty is a soldier running with a child in his arms as mortar fire falls around them.

All beautiful things aren’t pretty. All pretty things aren’t beautiful. Pretty is subjective.

I just find embraced flaws, unabashed scars, and unique qualities so fucking hot. Give me your weird. If you work hard to look like every shiny quarter out there, then I will flick you down a slot, and take my bubble gum in return. Even if it’s that shitty flavor no one wants, that has been sitting in the machine for years. I would rather grimace and chew the shit out of that bland gum, then pander to basic shine.

Love your un-pretty. It’s what makes you, you.