Rocky Horror Picture Show (Pt. 2)

This post is a continuation of PDP: Rocky Horror Picture Show (Pt. 1)

Friday night having finished with a metaphorical explosion of rainbow confetti, I planned on making myself up again, and in an even rowdier fashion of the previous shebang. Now that I had one shadow cast performance under my belt, I knew what I could prepare for, and I did the best I could to stretch my comfort zone further. Before I took my cosmetic brushes to some friends’ faces, I slipped on floral tights, slapped on a pink tennis skirt, slopped on the classic knee-high socks with the double-stripe at the top, and piled on two (two) bras because why the hell not? This time, I took into consideration the fact that I actually like being able to feel my feet, so no heels were involved at any point in the process.

Feeling inspired by the pink motif I had going on, I painted on some bubblegum eyebrows, glued on false lashes above pink mascara, rouged the absolute heck out of my cheeks, and stuck a pale pink color on my lips before going in with the literal glitter glue and sticking the adhesive below my eyes and on my décolletage so that my rose gold glitter had a place to stick. Eventually, I decided that there wasn’t nearly enough on my face, and added the glitter to my lips as well, so the final look ended up a little like this:


With my façade finished, it was into the hallway and onto others’ faces for me. By the end of a two-hour span, I had helped decorate three other individuals canvasses to the proper extent that Rocky Horror allows. Allison escaped my brushes with a dark purple smokey eye and a glittery gold highlight, Boomer’s eyebrows nearly jumped off his face, and, per his request, Reed kinda just turned into David Bowie.

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Our original group of film-goers consisted of a party of six, but two were held back by a sudden onset of sickness and the four of us that were left strutted our heavily made-up and heavily dressed-down selves downtown for the show. We sat four rows from the front, only so due to the enthusiasm of those who had made the trek earlier than ourselves, and about fifteen minutes before the show was scheduled to start, it hit me: I knew exactly what my costume was and I was going to enter that gosh darn costume contest if it killed me. I’m not going to state exactly what I determined my label was, because my relatives read this and I do care that they still want me to be a part of their family. Regardless, I’m proud to say I won, and got to carry home a bag full of sour candy – thank you, Stephenie Meyer, for your inspiration.

It was Allison’s first shadow cast performance, it was (obviously) only my second, but the other two we happened to ‘drag’ along were veterans to the show and urged the RHPS virgin to invest in a prop bag, which I’m pretty confident she’s glad she did. Another friend from our Hall was volunteering at the show and sat with us through the production, and since he had “basically lived [there] for the past 48 hours” doing volunteer work, he’d nearly memorized every call out there was to call out. Thanks to him, I had the upper hand in hearing exactly what it was that people were screeching at the screen, and our motley crew had a ride home after the show.

(Many thanks, Jake – – and congrats on winning the look-alike contest… Twice.)

It took until I got home to realize the true effect that these past two nights have had on me. It took basically undressing myself and strutting out in public to realize how slave I have been to what others believe I’m like, even though I’m painfully aware of how people think I’m ‘yourself yourself yourself.’ I never went through the ‘rebellious’ stage because I wanted to keep myself in good standing with my parents; a house over my head and a relatively stressless family life were more important to me than rebelling and finding myself through mistakes, and though it’s kept me safe and out of trouble, it hasn’t done much for my true confidence. I’ve just learned how to fake it really really well. This isn’t a sort of pity party cry for help, it’s a statement I want to get cleared. I’m now confident enough to know that I need to make some mistakes in the way that I’m perceived in order to find myself and not feel as though my consequent confidence is a hinderance to my personality and ability to comfort people, make friends, etc. I’ve grown up constantly afraid that who I am is going to intimidate people or turn them off to the idea of getting to know me, and that has affected how I behave to the point that it’s caused the social anxiety that I’ve been slowly (but steadily!) removing from my psyche ever since.

When we left the venue, two people requested photos with Jake and I, and one girl stopped me in the street to mention that I had met her earlier in the day at the rally we had attended. Not only that, but she suggested we get to know each other over coffee, and it just solidified the idea that expressing myself will deter the negative energy that weighs me down, and will attract the positive energy that I thrive on. This isn’t going to say that I’m going to dress like a prostitute (dear lord almighty no), but I’m going to be much more unapologetic in my attitude towards… well, as many things as I possibly can be. I’m no longer going to be indecisive – – it doesn’t get anything done. If I honestly have no opinion on something, I’ll let it be known, but no more shutting down conversations with, “I don’t care, how about you?”

I’m a barrel of emotions, I’m barren of emotions; I’m confident and have confidence issues; I swear like a sailor and I’m more polite than your Great Aunt Sally from the south; I’m kind and considerate but I take no shit; I’m the stereotype of your basic female millennial, and I’m made of my own special cluster of atoms and ideas; I like girls, I like boys, I like both, I like neither; I like covering up my body and I don’t mind showing it off; I’m an artist who doesn’t think and I’m logically overthinking everything; I’m easily embarrassed, I can brush off my mistakes like dust on steel; I always speak my mind and I always keep my thoughts to myself. I’m a personal paradox, and


will no longer

be sorry.

Much love,

Quinn ❤


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