Look at me…don’t you see how beautiful I am? Look at my full breasts, pushing the thin fabric of this microscopic bikini top. Don’t you want that? What about my legs, smooth, long, and so thin that I could buy my jeans in the children section. If you don’t want my body, you can look at my hair. Have you seen any better? Full and shiny, not a single strand of unkept hair. Or my skin? Glowing, no blemishes to fight with in the morning, no eye bags or, God forbitten, wrinkles. That, you would like, I bet. For ageing is for loser, for those who have no money, no respect for themselves.
What? You don’t believe me? Ah, dear, you make me laugh. Do you really think with less than a perfect body you will find real love? You will have money? You will get success. No chance for that, I tell you. What? I am not real? I am photoshopped? Oh, honey, everybody knows it, but nobody cares. And you don’t either. Even if you look at me accusing me of being fake, you will still rush to buy the latest cream as soon as you see your first wrinkle, you will die your hair until you are so old that you forgot your name, you will subject your body and soul to the ups of down of wanting and rejecting, dieting and binging, until your shape deforms. Yes, because in the end, no matter how hard you try, you will never be like me. Never. I am pure glossy perfection in an advertising poster, selling dreams and hopes, setting you up for a life of never-ending pain and insecurity.
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