Cocky

My mom always taught me that there is no shame in giving yourself a compliment.  To paraphrase Muhammad Ali, humble people don't get very far.  You don't know how many times she's sat back after eating a meal that she just cooked and said, "That was exactly what I wanted, it was delicious if I may say so myself."  So lets just say that at times, I'm cocky as hell.  I mean, when things are down, it always helps to take a look at the things that you have going for you.  

For example, I'm young, I'm pretty, and I hit hard.  Not to mention that I own my own home, an incredibly dangerous and cunning mind, and a shitload of very nice clothes.  The world is my runway, and I own that bitch, if I may say so myself.  No matter how I may be feeling, the face that I present to the world is polished, clean.  My clothes are my armor, my bag my shield, my smile my trusty sword, my mind that hidden dagger that will strike the final blow.  (if you're wondering where that last bit came from, I just finished watching The Return of the King, it got me kinda hyped.)

But even the baddest bitch has her moments of self doubt.  That runway is fraught with possible slips and falls, and no matter how many times you practice walking in those 5 inch heels (like the ones from my Polyvore below) there is still a possibility that you'll end up ass out and eye to eye with the cameras.  I slipped this week.  It could have been a full out face plant, but I managed to get my equilibrium and turn it into a full out twirl.  I was feeling a bit, anxious, out of sorts, paralyzed with fear at thought of the future.  So for a minute I retreated.  I've never had a problem being alone, I find myself wildly fascinating, plus I'm a great listener.  My imagination is powerful enough that I can disappear into the world of fiction, snuggled deeply in down (that is until it was fucking 68 degrees, what the fuck), a mug of tea at my bedside, a large snoring dog on the floor under the window.   And it was warm, and comfortable, and not in the least bit scary, or anxiety ridden.  Then Friday rolled around and Cousin T called, "Still want to go to that party with me?" It's Cousin T, so despite my internal hesitation, I immediately replied, "Yes."

Fuck!  A million little niggling thoughts are going through my mind.  Is Big Mr. Sad going to be there?  Is it going to be a bunch of 22 and 23 year olds?  Do I really have to get out of the bed?  What the fuck am I going to wear!?!?!  A couple of (*ahem) inhales later, and I calmed the fuck down.  What the hell am I so worried about.  Just get clean, then get dressed and represent in my usual you aint got shit on me style.  (That is after a couple more inhales.)  Two hours, one shower, some MAC and a banging outfit later (off the shoulder sweater tunic, with my leather look leggings over the knee boots, and a vintage rabbit fur jacket - everything was black except for the boots which are a deep red) and I was really feeling my self.  Four hours later and I had two new numbers in my phone and had refreshed my status as a Baby Cougar - 22 and 25 if you're wondering...