ELEGY TO ALL THE TEENAGE GROUPIES
ELEGY TO ALL THE TEENAGE GROUPIES
ananya pandya
ANANYA PANDYA
100 indian men tell me i am beautiful but they don’t understand why i prefer to be paid for it. When i was 13 my best friend told me it was possible to sell your virginity online and that’s how i found out it was too late for her. When i was 13 i got married to the richest fattest happiest man in the world and i drank champagne to every pregnant belly that wasn’t mine.
When I die i’ll be popular and clean and have so many boyfriends (only boyfriends, because what better way to kill yourself than dating a teenage hypebeast who has airpods). When I die I won’t be a girl. I’ll be some long drawn out myth. You’ll mispronounce my name when you recite it. So her name was Ananya. So she grew up sticking her head inside a toilet to find a deeper, darker, murkier meaning to this totally windex white swole Mr. Clean world. She wanted to flip it inside out and find some better hell. Hopefully she’s there now. Hopefully she’s rich. Hopefully she’s beautiful in some sort of life affirming way.
I’d die happy being known as the lady with perfect feet. I’d die happy being sensationalized, worshipped just for mere existence. Which teenage girl can afford to feel bad about being the fantasy? All i’m saying is It’s okay to be awful and existing. It is okay to take what you can get. I am in love with the most disgusting vile creatures on the planet. Degeneracy is safe. I want to be the Girl, the God. I can’t afford to feel bad about being the fantasy.
(If you are a bro you don’t need to do anything to exist peacefully because pain is a dude, a bro and you can’t suffer if you are already swole)
I’ve been told I need to tone it down. Stop talking about toilets, stop sticking your fingers where they don’t belong. I don’t belong here and I don’t want to die. Is there another option? Can I be a caricature of a human girl? A myth, a mammoth? I am the ultimate groupie. I am so involved in myself. The world is ugly but there can be small peace in the taboo: So I cheer for the cheerleader who flashes the crowd. I eat lunch on the school bathroom floor with several ugly girls, all they talk about is white boys, so pathetic in their delusions of men they think can protect them. I don’t pity the wounded or the gross; I marry everyone with a nut allergy. I hold hands with every young girl that is manipulative and ugly and desperate. I say thank you to all the cakey faces, all the droopy crotches, all the pot belly girls who vow to never be mothers.
I am going to buy out anyone that has ever suffered. Who looks after the degenerates of society? I mean, who looks after the emo girls, the girls with their noses buried in their diaries, the girls that don’t know how to have conversations? One day middle school will be in. One day puberty will be chic. One day pain won’t just belong to the white girls.
All I’m asking for is the right to exist. The right to cry all the time. The right to be unreasonably happy. Craziness is not a choice. It’s not cute. I don’t want to be cute, I want to be alive.
There will always be some joe rogan that will not understand this. But just because a dude has a podcast it does not mean you have to listen to him talk. Just because a dude has a chinstrap beard it does not mean he is a painter. Just because a dude has a chinstrap beard that looks like pubes you do not have to follow him. Just because a dude paints with his pubes does not mean he is revolutionary. It just means he is swole and he is swole and he is swole. (and you don’t have to suffer)
So take this as two truths and a lie. Take this as a holy confessional-some sacrilegious doo doo-------I lie to make myself look cool, I lie to make myself look innocent. Who doesn’t want to be the girl jesus rockstar that leans against buildings, looks hot when she cries, gets the dude, the bro, the rockstar without experiencing pangs of moralistic guilt? Is it possible to be a daughter and a girlfriend and a rockstar all at the same time without becoming a paradox?
some girls are sincere about life
I don’t think I have committed to my mortality as of yet.
I just wanna win this stupid life thing. Or I want god to take me to Coney Island and give me permission to scream on the rides as loud and as jarringly as I wish because that kind of stuff comforts him. I wish the best for his degeneracy.
I want him to be super ugly but so full of himself and evolved despite this fucked up girl culture we live in that he doesn’t bother thinking about it. Or I want to be uglier than him and I want it to comfort him in this sick way he can’t admit to because I’ll cry, no, he’ll cry. I want to make him cry like we’re a couple.
I want god to win me the carnival game. I want the stupid giant stuffed animal. Call it reparations for being a girlfriend, reparations for being ugly, reparations for being recklessly poor, reparations for fooling myself into love. I want to remind him of his mother. I want him to feel extremely disturbed peering into my face each time. Disturbed that the resemblance is uncanny, disturbed that he only bothers speaking to me because of it, disturbed that this could mean that he doesn’t even care for me, he cares for his mother.
I shut up as mother/girlfriend/rockstar. I say, “this is all super sweet.� in a past life i escaped being a mother In this life I choose to bear it
SOME BROS & BOYS SAY CARNIVAL GAMES ARE RIGGED BUT THROUGH MY OWN EXTENSIVE RESEARCH I HAVE CONCLUDED THAT THIS ISSUE (LIKE THE WORLD) IS MUCH MORE COMPLEX THAN RIGHT OR WRONG OR MONEY OR MONEY.
The game is not rigged. Life is not rigged. Some people are just not characters in the game in the first place. Some people are not TV daughters or girls that lean. Some of us aren’t born gods, we live as caricatures in poorly told myths passed from carny to carny, straight couple to straight couple.
Here’s to the ones that did not grow up safe:
I love you/I am you/I have tried to stop becoming you I cheer for the cheerleader who flashes the crowd. I eat lunch on the school bathroom floor with several ugly girls, all they talk about is white boys, so pathetic in their delusions of men they think can protect them.
I don’t pity the wounded or the gross; I marry everyone with a nut allergy. I hold hands with every young girl that is manipulative and ugly and desperate. I say thank you to all the cakey faces, all the droopy crotches, all the pot belly girls who vow to never be mothers.
Feel like america’s sweetheart america’s big beefheart Ig @jesuswasajock
This zine is dedicated 2 every popped pimple every pistol whip n my bros my buddies and kathleen hanna also made w hatred boiling feelings toward: PETER STEELE, AXL ROSE, GG ALLIN AND OFC EVAN DANDO
2019 march/Ananya Pandya