I am a real woman with an imperfect body. I have cellulite. It’s ugly, but it’s there. My bad hair days stretch to weeks, and the occasional stress-induced acne breakout becomes a catastrophe of epic proportions. Despite all of my many perceived imperfections, I consider myself less-than interesting looking. I could never look at myself and declare myself beautiful, it isn’t in me to do so. I hide from the evil, evil mirror. I am crushed daily, like a worm. No matter how hard I try or how much I starve myself, or look in the mirror and try and boost my sometimes sagging self esteem, I will never be thin, tall, or young. It sucks and I face it head on like a runaway train. I occasionally spit at the woman in the mirror for her many insecurities. She has interestingly red hair that is neither copper, or blonde, but some kind of bastard child in between. My eyes are the color of the Atlantic Ocean, neither green nor blue but something like the sea after a storm, minus the foam but absolutely with the spare tire floating around.
I already read that women are their own “worst enemy” and in a way, they are correct. We are bitchy and whiny and catty as hell, knocking down strangers and celebrities alike on the way to building up our own self esteem, we work overtime shredding someone to bits. AW hell to the YES. Sometimes it is fun to say Paris Hilton has a wonky eye, or flippers for feet, or Kim Kardashian has a big old Armenian bebonk-bedonk and somehow it makes us feel better to know that they have such human flaws. Shit, it makes me feel like a million bucks to see Jennifer Aniston with a zit. HELL YES!!! She can afford all the luxuries of life, and all the pretty things and the goops and the creams and the expensive potions and elixirs and she has a zit?
Tee Hee….Tee Hee