My worldview positions me front and center. Nice girls drift outwards, seeking comfort in the invisibility of such an abyss, their preferred positioning shielding them from getting close enough to conceptualize the peculiarities of life. From this stance, Nice Girls appreciate beauty at its surface level, unable to recognize the camouflaged blemishes (read: mistakes) or acknowledge the drafts (also known as failures) before its debut.
But, failure and me have matching best friend bracelets. Nice Girls put on their track shoes and run from failure. Having rather built a throne atop a ladder they do not honestly value than having to start at the bottom and work up a ladder in which they cherish, Nice Girls confuse patience with waiting, thus failing to realize the depth of such a virtue. Patience is not a glorification of the passivity in waiting, but the ability to maintain a positive attitude while working towards a nearly impossible goal or a project with an extensive timeline.
By aggressively avoiding mistakes, Nice Girls rob themselves of the best way to learn and without this, they never really mentally, emotionally, or psychologically develop into adults. Nice Girls naively accept mistakes as unchangeable failures. In reality, the only travesty in regards to mistakes is failure to learn from them. If one is too afraid of failure they can never do what is required to become successful, thus Nice Girls are left to find artificial success and an elevated sense of importance in their lack of mistakes. This fear of failure forfeits life's greatest success: happiness. I have failed more times than Nice Girls dare to try. Ultimately, guilty of the worst mistake of them all, Nice Girls allow fear to dictate the courses of their lives.
The unapologetic life I lead send Nice Girls into a deep shudder. Always the first to apologize, when asked to abandon their submissiveness and stop apologizing for things unworthy of forgiveness, "Sorry" all to often serves as a Nice Girl's sole response.
My sentences begin with a steady stream of fucks and conclude with a anthology that says fuck capitalism, fuck the patriarchy, fuck America for sticking it's dick in everyone else's desert, and fuck you if it is my language, rather than the surrounding system that has left me so angry, that offends you. Reserving particular subjects matters and conversations for defined relationships, planned appointments, and private places, I remember the reddening of various family members and friend’s cheeks upon my rehashing of how so and so's father was finally convicted after years of sexually abusing his children or my frank discussion of the heroin epidemic. “Hush,” they would say, “there’s children over there” or “people are trying to enjoy their meals.” I always thought and will forever continue to think, fuck that, people need to be exposed to reality in order to act upon it. Avoiding the discussion of difficult topics does not make them disappear from our realm. If these issues are not confined to certain people or places, why should our discussion of them be?
That’s where Nice Girls feel the burn and disagree. They possess no desire to discuss the lack of sympathy for reproductive loss after unplanned pregnancies or the cultural appropriation in Iggy Azalea’s new single. Why feel when one can numb themselves with Youtube videos of singing kittens and hangovers (only to judge other’s for swapping Melatonin supplements, yet completely ignoring the health consequences of binge drinking), Nice Girls possess no desire for reality. They want happy endings, brainwashed complacent children, and one of those no nonsense dogs that does not shed.
Which brings me to my next point: Nice Girls exchange productivity for busyness. Work conferences do not provide food for starving displaced families. Yoga lessons do make foreign adoptation more accessible for same-sex couples and spa appointments do not challenge color-blindness. Nice girls hate me for vocalizing such truths. All that busyness, all of that sleep deprivation, with absolutely nothing to show for it besides a yoga mat and manicured nails. Busyness is nothing more than illusionary obligation and thus, does not equate to a purposeful and productive life.
Nice girls define themselves by their plans, what they say they will do, rather than actually going out and doing anything. They remain content in their daydreams and collection of beliefs, without having to be bold, struggle with resistance, and fight. Wasting their college educations, Nice Girls are the prime example of how knowledge is useless without action. I on the other hand, understand that I am what I do, not what I say I’ll do. See, Nice Girls do not start until they feel one hundred percent ready. When nothing is ever begun nothing meaningful can be achieved. Good things do not come to those who wait; they come to those who make things happen for themselves and others by working towards goals. Nice Girls would rather talk about their success, than achieve it, because obtaining success means taking a series of risks. It means taking a leap without seeing where you will land. Me? I make multi-orgasmic love to the dangerous unknown.
The fear of death prevents nice girls from truly living, while my fear of a life I never lived because I was too afraid to take action frees me to act upon my natural curiosity and fervor. I know that the ultimate loss in life is what dies inside oneself while they are still alive, but to nice girls, death is the ultimate tragedy. I refuse to call anything that's a normal and healthy part of the natural life cycle a tragedy. It's like girls who are disgusted by talk of menstruation and childbirth. Ugh, nice girls.
All in all, it's the manner in which my heavily pigmented make-up juxtaposes next to my extensive volunteer experience or how my flirtation with violence has earned me the respect of the same men who once catcalled me, that proves so bothersome to Nice Girls; I leave them confounded.
How did a recovering heroin addict who once ripped a hoop straight out of a gal’s nose manage to earn a brilliant academic scholarship to her first choice college? How did a girl with a visible controversial tattooed and dip-dyed blue hair snag a job working alongside the Deans? Because before every success is a tired string of failures. Accepting both her past and death as certainties rather than catastrophes, she is not burdened with an ever present fear of failure. Never equating a constantly buzzing Smartphone with productiveness or a pretty thought with action, she does not wait for things to happen; she makes them happen.
Nice is an image, never a truth.
