inner beauty, outer whore.

Inner beauty is often talked of, but how often is it seen? How often do you look for it? This Halloween, I found reassurance among strangers and friends that inner beauty is alive and well, and is seen by Vancouverites.

I, in female attire, lips and eyes smeared with make-up, paraded around the streets "hitting on" anything with a pulse. Maybe the victims of my humps and my lumps and my chest hair saw humor, I won't deny it. But maybe I looked beautiful. Maybe my high nasal slut drawl, a tone that one person in everyone's vicinity has exuded, set their passion aflame. The later it got, the more beautiful I thought I looked.

At 6:30 pm, I thought that I simply looked whorish and silly; Steve concurred.

At 7:15 pm, I had received numerous compliments from women and a few cat calls from men.

Two hours later I had gained the self-confidence that can take months of therapy and thousands in plastic surgery. With every reflective surface I passed, I would reapply my make up and think, "I AM a sexy bitch."

As time passed into the night, the dark enveloped my sense of sequencing. There were lights from burning fireworks, crackling ephemerally, like the hot pink lipstick that would soon be kissed off.

Someone saw my beauty on that moonless night. Many people saw my blue eye shadow the next morning on the bus ride of shame.