Beauty in cotton and denim

There are so many ways to make people's heads turn. Some make fools of themselves. Some don't even know they're making fools of themselves. Some pull all stops with the wardrobe they decide to trot. Some laugh and everybody senses the electricity, if cheese is allowed. Some, well, don't have to think about it.

The world knows I am a sucker for these things. Most probably it's the effortless demeanor, for that's the only way you sense the truthfulness of the thing, for lack of a better term. It's in the simplicity, in the ways they smile and somehow pass some magic spark among those who are entranced. But enough of the clich├ęs and back to the story - I know cheese doesn't work well with me, what more with its tendency to melt.

I was on campus for a little over three hours, one of which was spent cooling off inside the department's radio studios, reading thirty pages' worth of speculation as to why the business of culture is involved in simple deception. Simple deception, indeed, because I didn't get a thing, yet I got what is said, at least to an extent. And that I would learn from Anna that reading it wasn't needed yet, but thankfully I was only eleven pages through.

As tensions decreased, so did my energy level, very much an expected thing since it was already the middle of the afternoon. Yet it seemed that everyone still had the energy to be uninterested and chat away. The video didn't help as it flashed images that didn't affect me in any way aside from making me dizzy. I was in the front row, as usual, and nobody asked me to slouch so that they'd be able to see what's on the projector. All around me, the people were being their usual selves.

Maybe I was just entering my serene state. The (hole-filled) documentary tackled advertising and how it makes drones out of the audience; true enough that's the reason why I'm too aware of my pimples. As expected it'd discuss how advertising continually changes the definition of beauty, and making billions of insecure people across the planet, and then my mind wanders. The images have rushed by so fast I could be eligible for seizures.

Maybe that's why today was one of my rare appreciative spells. Nothing perverse, just a hopeless feeling of getting attracted to something, then nothing else follows. I thought it was the rain, and the cool that it brought to everyone - the skies were pleasant until after I left for the bus terminal. And as I said a few sentences before, hopelessness, too - I wasn't prepared for the rain, and I got home with wet shoulders, but it's either the jazz I was listening to, or way the day ended, or it's something else.

Some don't have to bother worrying because they get the attention anyway. I never liked thinking that I'm as much as the drones the documentary was talking about - that I don't have control over anything I'm trying to think of. I'd like to think I'm as in control as everybody else claim to be, with a choice to move forward or step back. It's in the joke I somehow extended from Naomi's surprise to Misha's amusement, to the walk along a rainy Taft Avenue, and the cold air that keeps on making its way to my head.

It must be some warning, although there really is no need for one, because the hopelessness is enough to make me stop at my tracks. Effortless, indeed, was the demeanor, in the way she entered the room and looked at things, in ways I couldn't comprehend. I won't bother because it isn't worth it. It must be the look in her eyes. How would I know? I was on the verge of seizures after the documentary. Flash, flash, flash, home time, and tomorrow I'm definitely going to be half-sick. If only they'd be there all the time.

You, with the prominent cheekbones and the chinky eyes, in the white cotton top and the denim jeans. Yes, you.

And your responses...

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