it could be the recent spate of advertising for glowing white armpits, or the last hour i spent googling rhinoplasty procedures, or the fact that i haven’t had sex for…oh, lets just say i can officially declare myself a virgin again, but i’ve had this feeling creeping up on me for awhile now. this feeling that i can be perfected. subject to fine print and certain inescapable realities of life, of course (like the fact that i haven’t managed to grow a pair of boobs in 32 years, which effectively nixes my chances of morphing into barbie). after contemplating for a long, long time on the possibility of perfection that the cosmesuitical industry argues for so persistently when i turn on the tv (oh come on, you should take a break from the worldcup too), after fantasizing for ages about what it would be like to be sweat-less, odor-less, hairless, blemish-less, zit-less, t-zone-less, stretchmark-less, snout-less, cellulite-less, wrinkle-less, i have reached the conclusion that there is only one perfect material in the world and we are not made of it. plastic. plastic is perfect, whereas people are porous. so i’m seriously thinking of getting myself redone in it. with pearly whites and baby blues and perpetually arched eyebrows and a super slick hairdo and permanently flexed pecs and perennially taut glutes and an urbane plastic bump where my genitalia used to be. you can help me decide one last thing - should i go blonde, or brunette?
image sources: www.cnbc.com, www.brooklynstars-forever.blogspot.com
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