A Lacy White Veil of Ambiguity

A funny thing happened on the way to the bathroom. I had a revelation. Why do you look so disappointed? What did you think I was going to say? That I felt a warm sensation? That I had a sudden urge for Shepherd’s Pie? Grow up.

Moments before my call of nature, I’d logged onto Facebook and engaged in a rather self-slanderous conversation with a friend, via status updates. I’d revealed to all my 460 closest friends, that I thought Shakira was a slag (cryptically conveyed through a rather ingenious garden hoe analogy), that I had an affliction for Beyonce and her hourglass figure, and that sometimes - I was a lesbian. I was a lesbian specifically with ‘said’ friend, and especially because I had failed to buy her a celebratory birthday gift.

So I’m  bi-curious, Beyonce gets me off and if I’m skint I’ll turn lesbo solely to give my ladies a taste of what money can’t buy? Wow I’d like to meet her. What a chameleon.
Oh wait. We were talking about me, weren’t we?

Yes I like Beyonce - but she’s not a boy so I don’t like her that much. And Shakira’s recent foray into the unadulterated world of the Pussy Gentleman’s Club (see She Wolf) probably stems from poor album sales and the limelight-stealing Lady Gaga, K West ‘relationship’ in tow. (By ‘relationship’ I loosely refer to a tour that was cancelled before it even had a chance to inhale our lovely Carbon Monoxide. HA!)

But dear reader, rest assure I do not harbour any disdain for the Latin American lady whose breasts are ‘small and humble’. I honestly believe that Shakira’s record label probably gave her an ultimatum: ‘act like a tart on camera, sticky wet lips et al. or burn in hell’ and her decision mirrors that of any self-respecting artist. Just look at ‘talented’ model/singer Cassie who is a great advocate of burning her soul, and her clothes (see NSFW nude photos) to boost sad sales.

Every fickle announcement that formulates on my Facebook wall is merely a mutation of that clandestine concept known as the ‘truth’. Upon typing in my username and password and eagerly awaiting a successful page load, I am consciously aware of the perils that lie ahead; of the bare-it-all nature of Facebook and the knowledge-enhancing tool it so graciously provides. So in an act of reverse-psychology I take on a persona; a character that is crass and abrasive, while meticulously maintaining correct grammatical structure. I’m not afraid to mislead people but I am afraid to reveal too much and a lacy white veil of ambiguity seems to be the perfect antidote.

A Facebook page is merely a glorified online resume; an account of you, your life and your friends. It allows visitors to gain a perspective of your titular character and from this they are able to deduce A LOT. True photos are an impervious element but just because the words on your page aren’t ‘smoking a bong’ or providing an up-and-close view of the ‘canyon between your breasticles’ doesn’t mean they expose any less. However, you have complete control over what is bequeathed upon the wall of your Face! It’s called selective reality. Facebook is a place where you can create your desired reality. Take on that promiscuous character that lives deep within or feed those narcissistic tendencies by ‘re-touching’ photos prior to the public blood-bath.

Self-effacement allows me to ridicule your sensibility while leading you in the wrong direction. I ain’t providing you with a yellow brick road. If you really wanna know what I’m like come and stand outside my window. It’s a massive motherfucker that lives on the ground floor. The transparent mass is framed with velour curtains that will never know the true meaning of their soulless existence.

The truth is Facebook scares the shit out of me.. I guess Jasmine’s Fool (a pseudo name which further justifies this charade) is my doppelganger. She is better looking, has bigger balls and doesn’t give a fuck what people think.Despite all this nothing can compete with the ‘real’ version because no matter how much we immerse ourselves in social media, 'reality' will be the prevailing factor constantly lingering over you; sticking its wet finger in your ear and gnawing at your subconscious. 'Reality' is handing you a shovel so you can dig your arse out of that crater before exposing that pastry white to the brightest star of all - the sun. So don’t bother flicking through my albums or deciphering my wall - just PICK UP THE PHONE because sarcasm doesn’t transpire so well via text; it falls flat where intonation should take charge.

And let me tell you, I am one sarcastic motherfucker.