I have come to the conclusion that I may just be the luckiest motherfucker to ever live. Who can get away with the shit that I have, and walk away smelling of roses? Take school for instance, everyone told me that there are no exceptions. I have singlehandedly proved that theory wrong. Oddly enough, or not so oddly enough, I don't feel good about it. Did I scam my way through the system, or were the reasons really legit? But that's not the point. I've been lookking in mirrors a lot and have been wondering if people see what I see? Do we, as human beings with thoughts spoken and unspoken, and sometimes spoken but should've been unspoken, do we see ourselves the way others see us? Ever? I say, that the only times that happens, is when we are away from the mirrors. Mirrors are reflections, and when we look at those mirros, we are looking at our own reflection of ourselves. When was the last time you've looked into the mirror without making a tiny adjustment before declaring your hotness?

But, when you take the mirror out of the equation, then you are left with your minds' image of yourself. Your image. How you perceive yourself is how others may perceive you, as I was once told by a very smart, albeit mouthy alter ego of myself.

So when I look in the mirror, and see myself, am I seeing myself or what people see me as? And what do people see me as? Why do they see me that way? These are too many questions to be bothered to sit and ponder over as life goes on. You may not be a bombshell to the immature playboy, but a kind-hearted butcher might think you're Aphrodite-incarnate. And in that butcher's world, you will encompass all that is regarded as that wacky carousel we call Love.

But then how do you define love? And how far can you take ignoring bodily image? I'm all for looking beyond the surface of people and finding out their inner Peter Parkers, but at what point do you tell yourself that you can only look so deep until you need some outer beauty to dress up for parties. Because I am sure that had the frog not turned into a Prince when the Princess kissed him, that he would be sitting on a lonely lilly pad somewhere wondering what he could do to change his complextion and desire to chomp down on the latest in fine insect-cuisine of the flying variety. Or maybe the Princess would have been rejected, and she'd be sitting in her castle thinking of various ways to balance herself on a single lily pad without sinking. But because the story didn't end that way, the Princess looked beyond the Frog's exterior and found what she'd been looking for, a good man who was neither too far beneath her that she'd get dragged down, nor too above her that she might get lost in a flurry of well-meaning but ill-timed relatives. The Frog had stopped looking in mirrors, and saw himself in the eyes of that of the Princess that saw him for what he was. A Prince.

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then / after