Oscar Wilde admired beauty. So much so that he proudly proclaimed that he chose his friends for their good looks, his acquaintances for their characters, and his enemies for their intellect. But at least he’s honest about it, vocalizing what most people do when judging one another based on what the eyes, not the minds, see for the instant recognition of optical illusion morphed into reality.
Our society favors gregarious extroverts, not reticent introverts nestled in the shade of anonymity, not because they are antisocial but simply because that’s how they are. Not everyone is uniformly outgoing. Nobody is impossibly happy go lucky. I always find it scary that having a happy face all the time is a specialty of a psychopath in disguise. But people do not usually warm to those who are lonely, quiet, or not so attractive, instead pinning them down as anti-social, incompetent, or negative to stay away from them. It amazes me to see people gossip about or ostracize unpopular, reticent people the way people falsely accused innocent women of practicing witchcraft in the past because they were in their selves. Or are they still? Come to think of it; if I had been born during the days of heightened witch-hunting, I would have been burned at the stake.
I feel that people do not like to talk to me because I don’t have the face of Helen of Troy to launch a thousand ships or do not open up a conversation first, or because of my race being Asian, a race stereotyped as being docile, if not submissive, to voice out what’s kept inside. Notwithstanding the account above, I do not want to force myself to become someone I am not, cannot, and will not because, as Wilde pinpointed, I am myself since others are already taken. I am not a negative person who always accounts for a litany of woes. Instead, I can see people’s ills in the swing of things around me and how they affect me. If discussing the malaise of what’s happening in my life when I need a company to share grief in halves, I call it cruelly erroneous and unjust.
Although I am not an addict, I lose myself in online shopping for clothing, jewelry, and cosmetics. Thanks to the advent of the Internet, now I don’t have to go to an actual store to buy the stuff of my interest without being self-conscious of spending too long a time debating what to purchase or what to give up for the sake of a rental fee.
My usual online shopping stores are Amazon, Macy’s, and Sephora. Recently, I have been browsing Pandora for my newly budded interest in their signature DIY charmed bracelet. But since the charms are ridiculously overpriced, I buy the imitation charms from Amazon. Macy’s online platform is paramount in a gorgeous panoply of women’s clothing and cosmetic items that usually come with lovey freebies.
Oftentimes, I wonder if my shopping habit is a symtom of mental defect, say Affection Deficiency Syndrom, Post-adolecent Pent-up Trauma, or Insatiable Desire for Beauty. Perhaps I am all above or none, but the desire to obtain pretty things is only a instinct for humans, especially women. After all, what is beautiful is a joy for all seasons, as Osacar Wilde said.
When I look at my two cats, Toro and Nero, I am reminded that pets reflect the personality of their owners. My cats and I have lots of things in common, and I was also born in the year of the tiger, which makes me a little more than kin to the feline family.
My cats and I are creatures of habit, not readily adept at familiarizing ourselves with changes in the environment. We like the comfort of tranquility, the solace of romantic solitude, and the occasional entertainment of visual and auditory excitement, such as watching movies and listening to music. We are so used to routine activities at home that an iota of deviation feels like the earth moving under our feet. But that doesn’t mean we are peevish curmudgeons sulking and skulking in the background of joy and laughter. We do things on our own, keeping things to ourselves, yet we need each other when we are alone. For example, when I feel down and out, my cats come next to me, especially in bed, and console me with their soft furry, puffy cheeks against mine with purring, which also puts me into a sound slumber soon. It’s incredible to realize that my cats know how I feel.
They say when you love someone, you become one. Or am I already onne?
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