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A hopeless Sunday morning in the vacant San Francisco. And then my praise for the day in Starbucks. The cashier: he looks at my license then at my face. There is quite a difference. When I took that picture I was 16, 200 pounds, and semi-gothic. "Wow," he said, "a change. You're quite beautiful now." Then he was embarrassed: "I probably shouldn't have said that..." But I smiled. "Thanks" I said. It really made my day. I'm obsessed with compliments, in case you haven't noticed. Especially physical compliments. I am vain. But gosh, does it feel good to show up with zits on my face in clay-stained jeans and still get the attention. It tells me: I'm not meretricious. Because I really hate meretricious. It is deceitful and fake. I am happy that I've come to a place where little Asian ladies and un-smarmy Starbucks gentlemen can give me lovely compliments. Perish the days of men expecting, wanting, taking: "LET ME DO YOU. YOU ARE HOT". I loved the men who could simply give me a compliment and leave it at that. Black guys are really good at that. And some day I want this skin to be clear. To again wear lovely things. And be some kind of poster boy for art. Ha ha. I would love that. Like Farrah Fawcett on every ceiling.
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