Beauty is Pain

(Note: I wasn’t planning on writing this until I was fully healed but I’m five days post op and legitimately feel like I’m going crazy from boredom so here goes)

Cosmetic surgery is a very strange experience. You spend your whole adult life hating a part of your body, poking and pulling and analysing it from different angles every time you step out of the shower and then you decide to change it and suddenly you’re standing naked in the mirror the night before your surgery thinking “This is the last time I’m going to look like this” and you almost feel a sense of loss because wishing it was different has become such a deeply ingrained part of your routine.

This blog is taking me longer than normal to write because I have to keep standing up to take breaks. I’m currently kneeling on a fluffy cushioned ottoman, resting my elbows on a pillow on my kitchen bench while trying to type this out on my Macbook because for the next few weeks, I am unable to sit down in a chair, confined to only kneeling, standing, and laying flat on my stomach. Last Thursday, I went through a procedure known as a Brazilian Butt Lift.

I’m sure a majority of you reading this have no idea what that means, and are picturing something far more dramatic than the reality – in my experience, a lot of men tend to always assume the most extreme cases when hearing about cosmetic procedures. I can’t even keep track of how many times I’ve mentioned lip injections and had a barrage of guys yell “No! Don’t do that! I hate lip injections, they always make you look like a duck!”, not realising that they’ve literally never seen me without lip fillers and the way I have them placed keeps my pout looking full but natural. With that in mind, I feel like many of you have seen the words “butt lift” and are imagining me with some kind of giant Nicki Minaj Kim Kardashain ass.

The BBL is a fat grafting treatment, it doesn’t use implants or any foreign material, it just uses your own body fat. I had my entire torso (stomach, back & sides) plus my inner thighs and flanks liposuctioned and had that fat grafted back on to my hips and ass. To be completely honest, in the beginning I mostly just wanted the fat on my lower stomach removed. Even at my thinnest and fittest, I carried a pouch of fat on my abdomen and around my belly button that just wouldn’t budge, and believe me when I say that I’ve tried everything. That pouch of fat has fucking plagued me for my entire life. But only getting lipo on one small area ran the risk of making my body look uneven, so it made sense to do my whole torso and get the small, snatched waistline I dreamed of. And at that point, like my surgeon said, if you’re gonna take fat out you might as well use it so I decided to fill in the hip dips I’d always been so self-conscious of that I edited them out of every photo, and use the rest to get a little more fullness in my ass.

So here I am, five days post op, feeling relatively miserable but happy that I finally did it. I’m wrapped in an compression garment that I have to wear 23 hours a day, it’s uncomfortable as fuck but the hour a day I take it off to shower and massage my stomach is so much worse. Half of my body is so bruised that it looks like I got trampled by the wildebeest herd that killed Mufasa, and my cats are pissed at me because I can’t risk having them step on the freshly grafted fat so I have to shut them out of the bedroom at night. I’m on two different kinds of nerve pain pills but am avoiding the temptation of the bottle of Vicodin they gave me because that shit makes me feel TOO good and opiate addiction is really not a path I’m trying to go down. And worst of all, I haven’t been able to play Black Ops 4 yet because I can’t sit in my gaming chair.

If you’ve made it this far I just wanna be clear, I do not want you to tell me “You don’t need plastic surgery” because I truly don’t give a fuck what anyone else thinks I do or do not need. I did it because I wanted to. I made the decision many years ago when I got my first boob job to always be open and honest about any cosmetic treatments and procedures I got, big or small, because a) I firmly believe in removing the taboo surrounding it and think if you have the means to change something and feel better about yourself in this meaningless speck of time you have existing on this earth, you should do it, and b) I don’t want other women to look at my body with unrealistic expectations and think that it was anything other than tens of thousands of dollars worth of needles and scalpels and anesthesia and pain that got me here.

At this stage I’m too bruised and swollen to gauge the final result but from what I can see it looks great. I don’t think I’ll fully process the change I’ve made til later, it’ll probably really hit me when I go clothes shopping for the first time or when I do a photo shoot or something. I’d honestly kill someone to be able to just sit in a chair and chill right now but I can’t, so on that note I’m gonna go back to laying flat on the couch with my neck at an awkward angle and continue binge watching That 70s Show for the hundredth time.


Toothaches & Tailgates

I’ve spent the better half of this week moping around my apartment in fucking agony thanks to a suddenly active wisdom tooth. Generally by my age they would have finished with this kind of bullshit but apparently mine are having some kind of late-onset tantrum so I’ve scheduled an appointment to get all four of them pulled out of my head next Thursday, along with taking care of some other dental work that I’ve been putting off thanks to my hypochondriac tendencies. Four of my back teeth are pretty bad from having braces for so long (towards the end of high school we moved for dad’s job and then I went away to college so I changed orthodontists several times and it fucked the whole process up) so for the longest time I’ve been assuming they’re completely ruined and I will need to get all of my teeth pulled out, and thus avoiding actually getting them looked at. Turns out they’re mostly fine, I just need a couple of fillings in them, so I’m doing all that plus a major deep clean in one hit while I’m already knocked the fuck out. It’s horribly expensive, but saves me from having to make multiple visits and I’m looking forward to my mouth feeling nice.

I was attempting to do ‘Sober September’, a thing I did last year and felt somewhat obligated to do again because I truly believe my stubborn commitment to a month of no alcohol was the only reason I didn’t attend the Route 91 festival where the Vegas shooting happened. Any time I do a sober month I’ll try to tell myself it’s for health but really I’m just trying to drop a few pounds. Right now that’s actually not something on my agenda so my motivation kind of slipped and once I was presented with the opportunity to attend my first ever college football tailgate, sobriety went out the window and I was pounding beers in a sea of orange at a UT frat house pondering how much of a massive hoe I would have been had I got to experience American college life as a 21 year old.

Tailgates have many things I enjoy rolled into one – day drinking, sports, the potential to meet cute boys who like day drinking and sports. I think tailgating at UT home games might be my new favourite activity for the next few months. Speaking of boys, I am finding it inexplicably difficult to meet guys in Austin. Everyone bitches about how hard dating is in LA and I moved to Texas with high hopes of things being “different” but lemme tell you, I’ve lived in multiple cities in two different countries and dating fucking sucks EVERYWHERE. Maybe I’m the common denominator and I’m doing something terribly wrong and just don’t know it, but I feel like a lot of people feel the same way as me. Who knows. I’m currently in the pessimistic phase of my emotional cycle: “I’ve given up on the hope of ever finding love so I might as well just find someone hot to have casual sex with” and that’s going poorly. My bar is honestly SO LOW right now (even my therapist said so) and somehow, guys are still managing to fuck it up. It is truly baffling.

The Palms: A Mémoire

I’m currently in Vegas sitting in my room at the Palms. The last time I was in one of these rooms was just over two years ago when I was working for Monster Energy as a DJ for the Supercross events, I was still waiting on my first payment to come through from them and I was so broke I could barely afford to eat while here and had to get someone else to check me in to my room because I didn’t have enough money in my bank account to pay the security deposit. I vividly remember standing in the lobby almost in tears, so stressed and embarrassed because I couldn’t check in, frantically making phone calls trying to figure out what to do. This time, I’m sipping a latte in bed while debating whether or not I want to go to the mall to buy myself a pair of $875 Valentino Rock Stud sandals for my birthday. I could give you some kind of motivational speech about never giving up and chasing your dreams but in reality all I did was trade in DJing for getting naked on Snapchat… despite that, it’s still crazy to think about how much life can change and how you never really know what’s coming up next.

I’m hosting a strip club pool party today which I’m excited for but also low key anxious because I’ve hyped up my Snapchat so much on the premise that this party will be fucking crazy, and what if it’s not? That being said, if there’s one thing I’m good at it’s getting shitshow drunk and turning anything into a wild party so I guess either way, I’m gonna be fine.

Birthday Month

August has turned into such a crazy month (Miami last week, Vegas this weekend to host a strip club pool party, Houston the following weekend for my friend’s dad’s birthday bash on the ranch complete with live country music and fireworks, then New Orleans the weekend after that for Southern Decadence and a close friend’s 30th) that I barely have time to celebrate my own birthday on the 23rd. It’s kind of a blessing though because planning birthday stuff for myself turns me into a weird anxious dipshit who feels like they’re inconveniencing everyone so I think a low-key dinner/drinks thing on my actual birthday sounds calm and nice.

I’ve been trying to get back on the ‘dating’ bangwagon (this was a typo but I decided to leave it because bangwagon seems somewhat appropriate) lately and I’m already completely fucking over it. Feeling just about ready to once again give up on finding something serious and drop my age search to 23 to try to find hot frat boys & college athletes to hang out with because at least they’re fun and have nice arms and I won’t get emotionally invested and get my feelings hurt. I’ve been off the hoe train for a long while but maybe (late) summer 2018 is the time to get back on board.

It’s weird being in a position where random guys online tell you all the time, “How are you single? You could have anyone you want, dating must be so easy for you!” when that really could not possibly be any further from the truth. Dating never came easy to me, I’ve always been someone that a lot of men pursue sexually but rarely romantically and the last time I had an actual boyfriend was 2010. I don’t really know why that is, like I’m not jealous or demanding or controlling, I’m actually pretty fucking chill. Maybe I’m TOO chill. Sometimes I wonder if I seem too independent, too free-spirited, and that translates as not interested. Maybe men want to feel needed and I come across like I don’t need anyone. Maybe I just have commitment issues or maybe I still have too much shit I need to unpack in therapy before I will be ready for anything like that. Maybe it’s just not meant for my life no matter what I do. Who fucking knows, man.

At least for the next few weeks I’ll be too busy with travel and friends to give it much thought!

Kids, and Why I Don’t Want Them

“I think the reason I find it so difficult to be satisfied with my husband is because, like, realistically I know I could have literally anyone I want… you know what I mean?”

“Um well no, I’m not really sure what it’s like to think that”

“Oh, well, I mean it’s different for you. You don’t want kids so you’ll probably have to settle for what you can get.”

Although this was a conversation I was involved in many years ago, those words are burned into my brain and I can still hear them as vividly as when they were said aloud while driving along a highway at night back in 2009.

I’ve known my entire life that I don’t want to have children, in fact I don’t think there’s many things about myself that I am more certain of from the absolute core of my soul. It’s difficult to explain how I feel, because when it comes to the concept of motherhood, I simply feel nothing. I can’t remember a single instance during my entire life that I ever felt any kind of connection to the idea or a desire for it, no part of it elicits even the slightest emotional response in me beyond “no fucking thanks”. As for pregnancy, I’m borderline phobic. Images of heavily pregnant stomachs make me feel legitimately distressed and uncomfortable, and I can’t even fathom the idea of something actually living inside me. On top of all that, I believe this planet is completely fucked both environmentally and socially, and it’s not a place I would want to bring a child into anyway.

It’s a frustrating position to be in, because people will always tell you that you’re wrong. That you’re not a “real” woman if you don’t want to have a baby. That you’re “missing out on fully experiencing life”. And more infuriating than any of that, the condescending, smug nod of the head followed by, “Mm, you’ll change your mind one day.” That last one has slowed down now but when I was younger people would tell me that all the time and I would get so goddamn angry! I wish people would understand that it’s a good thing that at least I KNOW I don’t want kids so I’m not going to fucking have any, rather than just popping one out anyway because society says I should and ending up being a terrible parent.

But coming back to the conversation at the start of this blog, it’s also something I am deeply insecure about. Once you hit late 20s, not wanting kids makes dating progressively more complicated because it’s something so important that needs to be discussed early. Bumble is populated with men in my age group whose bios read “No kids, but want them”. Even guys on dating apps with pics holding their niece or nephew make me feel unsettled because is that a subliminal “Look how good I am with kids” message? My biggest dating fear is getting into a relationship with a guy who is ‘on the fence’ about it only to have him decide a few years down the track when the biological clocks start ticking that yeah, he actually really does want to be a dad, and I wind up being left high and dry for another woman who is willing to provide him with that. At the same time, I would never want someone to sacrifice that for me. Parenthood is such a deeply personal decision that nobody should have to compromise on.

Guys online always say to me, “How do you have trouble dating, you’re so hot” as if having some degree of conventional physical attractiveness overrides all the other complicated layers of bullshit that go into finding a suitable long term partner. I guess most people just assume that most women want to have a baby so they don’t take this kind of thing into account.

Maybe that person all those years ago was right, maybe my absolute aversion to motherhood does mean I will have to settle. And if that’s the case, I guess I’ll adopt 15 cats and stay single forever.

Idk Just Life Stuff

90% of the blogs I write for this thing never make it past the draft. Sometimes it’s because I get halfway through an entry then decide it’s not something I want to share with the world and is best kept to my therapy sessions, sometimes it’s because I desperately want to share my feelings on a subject but have so many jumbled thoughts that I can’t quite articulate it all in a way that I feel won’t be misunderstood.

Anyway… I’ve been enjoying Instagram a lot more lately since the implementation of the “Ask me a question” feature. I never got to participate in things like Curious Cat or any of those other anonymous Q&A sites because people already send me messages saying I’m a stupid whore and that they hope I get raped from their IG accounts with their full name and personal photos so imagine how horrific it would be if I opened up an outlet where people could so easily yell things at me anonymously. At first I felt like a dumb annoying narcissist by answering so many questions but I have been getting so much positive feedback from people who actually like reading what I have to say instead of just looking at my usual feed of emoji censored titties, so it’s been really fun.

Personal training has been going really well, like it’s insane how much stronger and fitter I feel already, but unfortunately putting that much mental energy into working out always comes hand in hand with a flare up of the ol’ body dysmorphia so right now I really have no idea what I look like or how much progress I’ve made. I had weigh-in last week and have apparently lost an absurd amount of weight (I don’t know the before and after as I will not look at the numbers on the scale and haven’t since about 2013, I only know how much I lost) but that knowledge just sent me into a fucking anxiety spiral because something about actual numbers when it comes to my body is not good for me. I wonder if it’s because numbers are set in stone, they’re infallible, and with body dysmorphia there is no logic or reason behind my self perception so when the number and what I see don’t match up it sends me into a tailspin. The mind is a crazy thing.

Right now all I really care about is my kittens, decorating my apartment and binging Bojack Horseman, a show that I don’t know how the fuck I’m only just discovering now…. and since I don’t even really know what the point of this entry was, on that note I’m gonna get back to watching it.

Three Years

I’m writing this a few days early because I’m going to Houston for the holiday and am unsure if I’ll have time for blogging on Tuesday, but July 3 marks three years since I packed up my life and moved from Australia to the US.

Moving across the world, especially alone, is beyond terrifying and the fact that I’ve made it work here for three years is something I’m really fucking proud of. I remember being so scared that I couldn’t do it, that I’d struggle to make money and to adapt to the different way of life and would have to return home feeling humiliated, like I was a giant failure. Rationally, I would tell myself, even if that happened I hadn’t failed at all because at least I’d TRIED, which is more than a lot of people do, but the idea still felt like a dark cloud hanging over my head.

You make a lot of sacrifices as an immigrant, hell, earlier this year I missed my own brother’s wedding in Malaysia because my visa renewal was in “processing status” meaning I was legally allowed to be in the US but would not have been able to re-enter the country if was to leave at that time. Going through the immigration process itself is legitimately one of the most stressful, complicated things I’ve ever experienced and unless you’ve done it yourself you cannot understand how much it sucks. Despite all that, I feel so fucking lucky that I set my life up in such a way that I was both eligible to apply for a US working visa and financially capable of doing so because I truly am so grateful to be here.

It feels a little weird to me to be opening up on a blog about this kind of thing… even saying I’m proud of myself for moving to America feels like I’m exposing some kind of vulnerability, because god knows there’s so many angry, miserable voices out there on the internet who like to cut you down and shit on your achievements. But you know what, fuck it, because I am happy for me and what I’ve done.

I couldn’t be more excited to be spending this year’s July 4th on a ranch in Texas shooting guns, drinking whiskey and celebrating this country that has become my second home.