You’re getting ready to go to a Halloween party and you’re going as Axl Rose. You’ve got your bandanna on and a t-shirt and you’re struggling to get your leather pants zipped up.
They fit okay a couple of years ago when you wore them to a Thanksgiving dinner where you brought a hand-crafted turkey centerpiece made out of Popsicle sticks and colored paper. But now you feel like a bursting leather sausage. So you say, Fuck this, and you go find your other leather pants, the looser ones, but the waist is tight and the rest is too big.
So now you don’t even want to be Axl. Fuck him and fuck everything. You’re a fat whale with no reason to live. None. You have reached a precipice; you should take your leather pants and jump off it. Or if not a precipice, then a milestone. The one where you turn your back on leather pants and relax in a cotton floral housecoat, your legs mapped with varicose veins and your swollen feel stuffed into slipper socks with the non-skid soles.
You can go around like that old lady in a (trigger warning!) Woody Allen film croaking “I was once a great beauty” to anyone who’ll listen.
But then you pull yourself together. You have to go to the party. Your partner is going as Slash. You’ve RSVP’d. So you decide to default to (trigger warning!) Slutty Axl. As long as you have fishnets you can be Slutty Anything. So you put on the fishnet tights and find the tartan skirt you promised to send to a friend in her 20s because Grandma Schoolgirl is just not your preferred self-image, even for Halloween.
Now you’ve pulled it out. So to speak. You still feel a little tragic. You had to compromise, and you know that you’re a pregnant-looking orca but at least now you can wear lipstick and mascara, Because Slut. You jab the mascara in your eye but still valiantly walk out the door on time.
You get to the party and have a drink, feeling your self-hatred fade away like a dream as you behold a girl dressed like Mia from Pulp Fiction, with a bloody nose and a giant syringe sticking out of her chest.