So apparently Amanda Palmer, who is awesome, had a falling out with her record label because she didn't want to cut out shots of her (incredibly hot) body out of her latest video, on the basis that she had a bit of a tummy and was thusly "not marketable" or some crap like that. This is fairly old news, so stay with me.
Palmer did what was right in flipping these jerkwads the bird, and they responded by refusing to promote her new album or single, I think. Details are hazy there. Palmer's fans and other people who can see the plain messed-up-ness of this nonsense have responded with The Rebellyon, which is comprised of many people sending in pictures of their own bellies with the knowledge that they all look amazing and are all beautiful and other hippie granola stuff that people will make fun of me for thinking.
I thought this Rebellyon was an awesome idea, and lamented its arrival being during the time when my real computer (with the webcam) is out of commission. Then, while perusing the subject further maybe about an hour ago, I realized: I HAD a picture of my belly, from a few months ago, when I was dying for snacks between shopping trips and thought it would be cute to take a silly little "SNAX PLOX" picture. So without further ado, I present my Belly.
And you know what? I'm quite proud of my little-kid-proturding tummy; moreso than I am of my bony hips because at least my tummy doesn't hurt immensely when I bang it on a doorframe. But I'd proudly take a picture of my bony hips (which are more like Shins Part 2, with how much covering they have) and post that on the internet if it meant something.
And I'd give you my toes, which I've always thought looked like men's toes on the basis that all the women in my life as a child (on my mother's side, mostly) had toes like my mother, and I had toes like my father, and all the pedicure ideas in magazines had toenails like me mother's to facilitate putting little mail polish pictures on them. I alas, have no room for such things.
And I'd give you my hands, which look, to me, at the same time like an old woman's and like a little girl's: worn from artistry and scarred from endless hangnails. (I was going to mention my warts too, but they seem to have mysteriously disappeared, which is strange because I have had the one wart for as long as I can remember, so I'm going to assume the wart fairy took them away.) My nails are never pretty; not since I stopped getting acrylics on them and went back to using my teeth for nail clippers and chewing off the polish whenever I do bother to polish them. They are, to my credit, almost always bizarrely clean, because I am so anal retentive about cleaning gunk out from my fingernails. (I used to come back from Painting and Ceramics classes with hands just as sparkling as they were when I walked in. There was probably paint or clay all over my clothes and in my hair, but MY HANDS WERE CLEAN. I put them in my mouth a lot.)
I'd describe similarly how I'd proudly display my bra-clad breasts, but my breasts are frankly my favorite part of my anatomy, so that would just be bragging. Suffice it to say my boobs are awesom and I heart them. (I do not heart the little lone black hairs that appear around my aurolae that bother me so much that I have to tweeze them away even if no one's going to be seeing them. WTF boobhairs; I am a blonde.)
I'd take pictures, if it had a larger purpose, of my unshaven legs in the fur coat I'm growing on them for winter. Other than the hair, very light on the top half and dark on the bottom half, they're pretty much ideal as far as Western Beauty Standards (tm) go. Other than bringing me only to 5'2", anyway. I'd proudly display my weird knees. Does anyone have attractive knees? Knees are pretty bizarre in general; like feet or genitals.
If I could get all high-res and artistic, even, I'd take close-up pictures of my shoulders so you could see the details I love about them most. They're freckled and shiny from years of sunburn after sunburn; the results of loving the beach but also being largely Irish.
If I could show the Internet at large the details in my face and hair that show up in a mirror but no on camera, I'd love to. The very specific pattern the tiny hairs in my nostrils make when I check for boogers. The thousands of freckles that run together to make freckle blotches that blend into my skin until summertime comes back. The pores on my nose. The blackheads on the edge of my upper lip that I can't get rid of because they are in such a difficult spot to get at without giving myself a fat lip. The individual hairs between my eyebrows that make me self-conscious about unibrow possibilities and so, must be shaved with that little As-Seen-On-TV electric thing for shaving tiny areas. The pattern made by the skin on my lips, which is a lot more pronounced when they're dry. The "beauty marks" on my cheeks. My crooked bottom teeth. All my split ends. The paint or glue or tea or clay or lip balm that is probably in my hair, no matter how long it's been since I've used any of those things. (Paint is an especially bad offender; I've seen blue ends a full week after using paint.)
I'd show you these things (for a real purpose, not for someone's gratification) because I know I am beautiful. And you know what? You're beautiful too. No, shut up, I mean it. You're reading my blog, which means I probably know you personally and can attest to it, but either way, I think everyone's got something beautiful to reveal. And once you own that? Everything else follows suit. People can see it.
Also, cookies for anyone who gets the title for this entry and why it is applicable..
Welcome to the United States of White Supremacy
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