Am I pretty enough?

What does it mean to be pretty? What does it mean to be attractive? What does it mean to be fuckable and loveable and desirable?
And why do we care?

I’ve felt very unpretty lately, as I sit in front of my computer writing in an old sports bra and sweat pants covered in Albie fur, with hairy legs and pits and eyebrows, going too long without a showering, sand in my shoes, tacos on my breath. 
When I beat myself up over my looks, I ask myself: Does it matter right now if I am pretty or not? I am here to create, I am here to write, I am here to birth my novel. I am not here to be pretty. 

Which leads me to ask: Does it matter at any point in my life if I am pretty or not? Am I here to be pretty? When I die, will I wish I had been prettier?

The answer is a resounding no. So why do I still care if I am seen as pretty?

I think I might not. I want to be beautiful and stylish and feminine, femme is my gender identity after all, but I don’t think I care about being pretty. Pretty feels so transient, like something that could be given or taken away by external influences, and I don’t want to give that power away. 

So today, I am not pretty. Today I am a dirty writer sitting on a dirty couch, writing her heart out. And I’m okay with that. 

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