All The Boys Love Fucked Up Chicks

The ever-cute Michael Rapaport, Beautiful Girls:

A beautiful girl can make you dizzy, like you’ve been drinking Jack and Coke all morning. Bottled promise. Scenes from a brand new day. Hope in Stiletto heels.

But let’s talk about that special kind of chick. Beautiful, absolutely, but bat shit crazy. Betty Blue, for example – she’s smokin’ hot, French, and even has a popsicle in her mouth. But this sexy vixen is as passionate as she is unstable; and, “like a shooting star, she runs hot and bright, and eventually burns up” as she descends into insanity. And the more she unravels, the more her lover Zorg is in drawn in. Entirely consumed. Until (dressed in drag) he puts her out of her misery under a pillow. It must be some kind of gift; I swear, the crazy ones get all the attention.

She can make you feel high full of the single greatest commodity known to man – promise. 

Oh, Angelina, what a bad girl you used to be. It’s like she’s not even human, she’s so unbelievably hot. But I wonder. One of her tattoos is in Latin, “Quod me nutrit me destruit”, meaning, “What nourishes me, destroys me.” What the fuck? Drugs, cutting, blood vials. Bisexuality. Slight mental instability. Her beauty is almost violent. I know she’s all grown up now, but she’ll always have a touch of the crazy. She’s easily the hottest, most intriguing creature I can think of. She’s epic.

And we have a double whammy here; Angie played Gia, the tragic supermodel, who might have been even more messed up than her. Gia was a hugely successful model in the late 70’s in New York who burned out fast and hard thanks to a little party drug called heroin. She eventually died of AIDS in a welfare hospital. She was 26 years old. But Gia was tough, all Philly. Beautiful. Bisexual. Born to be wild. There’s just something about this kind of chick: They live by the sword, they die by the sword. You know you dig it.

Promise of a better day. Promise of a greater hope. Promise of a new tomorrow.

Check out the Manson women. It was 1970. If these ladies weren’t in prison garb, with X’s carved into their forehead, you might think judging by their demeanor they were at some sort of debutante ball. Actually, they’re at the Los Angeles County Courthouse, facing murder charges. They say the sixties officially ended the night Charles Manson and his twisted “family” went on their murderous crime spree. It made no sense. See the one on the right? Gorgeous, a Homecoming Queen from Monrovia. She’s, like, 20 years old. Based on looks, I’d trade places with her in a second. But then came little Charlie, and LSD. (Back then they blamed pretty much everything on acid.) As you can see, she and the others are smiling because they lived their lives exactly how they wanted, no limits: drugs, love, sex. They didn’t even have jobs. Except for the murdering/Manson worship part, I find this abandon kinda super sexy. It makes me want to join a cult – the mystery and secretiveness of it are oddly seductive. Anyway, nowadays, these girls would live in Silver Lake, or some other dirty kind of neighborhood, shop at thrift stores, have no bank account, and eat the Vegetarian Mess at Millie’s on Sunset. Like any good L.A. chick.

This particular aura can be found in the gait of a beautiful girl. In her smile, in her soul, the way she makes every rotten little thing about life seem like it’s going to be okay.

Strippers. Now we’re talkin’. I’ve never met a guy who didn’t brag about knowing a stripper. Or an “adult movie actress”. They’re just so intrigued. Just like chicks dig rock stars. It’s whiskey and water. They just go together. I’m pretty sure dancing came out of the closet and became cool when Motley Crue sang “Girls, Girls, Girls”. I’m thinking guys just like it when girls take their clothes off, even if they have to pay them. Strippers make more money than you, by the way, so it’s kinda hard to judge ’em.

So guys, I don’t blame you. There’s nothing like a beautiful girl to look at, no matter how fucked up.

 

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Anne Clendening ♥

Anne Clendening is an L.A. chick, born and raised. She is a writer of creative nonfiction and other sordid tales of life, love and other L.A. adventures.

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