Today’s post starts with one in a series of letters I would like very much to send, but am unable to due to various factors. One of those factors being that one of my subjects doesn’t exist, the others being that I lack appropriate addresses &/or I lack an audience that gives a damn what I think; excluding the current company, of course. God Bless You. Here is letter number one.
Dear Swimsuit Model,
I would like to start this letter with the most heart-breakingly honest opening I can produce. My problem is that I am not sure whether to simply say, “I Hate You.” Or if I should start by sharing, in painful detail, my absolute & unending jealousy over your supposed perfection. I say “supposed” because you have, without a doubt been photoshopped to some degree. That must have been painful considering how utterly beautiful you already are, yet someone decided that you weren’t quite perfect enough when they slenderized your already tiny hips, smoothed your baby-oiled skin and nipped & tucked your arms until they looked like flimsy uncooked noodles.
I would like you to take that emotion of inadequacy, deficiency and worthlessness and multiply it by 2, 576 (squared) and think about the rest of us Plain Jane’s whose hopes you’ve unknowingly (or knowingly) dashed and decapitated. Think about those that cannot even enjoy a single M&M without your image plaguing their limited sleep. Think about the ones who only use the self-checkout in the grocery store in order to avoid standing in line looking at your disgustingly perfect abs for prolonged periods of time. Think about those that diet relentlessly, spend hours doing dance routines and agonizing work-outs to get the figure that, truthfully, you probably don’t even have yourself. (Remember, we mentioned photoshop already.)
Sure, you have the prettiest complexion I’ve ever seen, your bone structure is amazing, you’re thin in all the right places, voluptuous in all the right places (with the help of a fantastic surgeon and the money you make wearing pieces of dental floss); we get it – you are beautiful. No need to rub it in the faces of us common folk. Even considering the fact that you undoubtedly have sand creeping up into unmentionable places, you are still both depression personified and desperation (to look like a Barbie doll) all in one tiny little package (much like the size 5 jeans that have been hanging in my closet since the middle of my senior year in high school).
Tonight, while I am eating nothing but lettuce and miniscule pieces of wheat bread and dreaming up the rigorous work-out routine that I will never start, I will be thinking of you with an equal measure of admiration and loathing. Then, when I come to my senses, I will realize that while you look fantastic printed on expensive paper & hanging on the arm of some handsome, celebrity jerk-off, you are probably insatiably hungry & pitifully unhappy. No amount of lunges, sit-ups and celery sticks can fill the void in your
rib-cage soul. I bet you probably dream of consuming an entire pizza in a frenzied, animalistic fashion and would enjoy nothing more than to pounce (like a wild jungle cat) on any person that dared to take a bite of the delicious, fattening, sauce, cheese & meat-covered bread in front of you.
So, it is with total and complete satisfaction that I feed the remainder of my lettuce and wheat bread to my dog (who won’t so much as sniff either one of those items), order a pizza and attempt to track you down for a dinner invitation. We may all salivate over your perfect figure, but in return, you will be agonizing just as much over the yummy comfort foods you are denied in order to have some dirty old man invent increasingly thinning items of “clothing” for which to string around your bony hips and jam up the crack of your already sand-filled behind.
Have a delightful day – spent mostly on maintaining your appearance – & I will enjoy my wonderful, completely anorexia-free life that I will instead fill with a daring amount of carbohydrates & as much laughter as I can stand.