Is Like A Day Without Sunshine

I love it when people sext me.  But of course I do.  Who doesn't?  I got one last night that I want to post here, but the large tattoo on the hip is a definite identifier and too difficult to photoshop out.  But things like that are such a pleasant surprise, equal to flowers and better than chocolates.  The day just seems to go better after that.  I simply don't get sexted enough, and perhaps that is why I am gloomy.

I like the photographs I take plenty, but they cannot come close to the power of a self-shot image.  Every little girl with a cell phone and a mirror is three times the photographer that I will ever hope to be.  The internet is chalk full of websites featuring these images.  You look and you wish you could be half as happy, half as young, half as pretty.

"Whee, whee, look at me," they say.  And it is true.  They will never look that good again.

It is a difficult place for a feminist, I think (whatever that may be).  Self-empowered or victim of the Master Narrative, an inherited Male Gaze.

It doesn't matter.  Those are just arguments.  We may like to argue, but we don't live our lives by ideals.  Not Ghandi, not MLK, not Kennedy (any of them).  Not even Sister Theresa or Lady Di.  Maybe Madonna does.  I'm not ready to say.  But I'm sure that she sexts all the time.  I'm still waiting for mine.

If you don't have my phone number, you can send your pics by email.