But rich, successful, powerful men aren't falling all over themselves to marry me. Who do I need to cancel until they validate my self-image and stop hurting my feelings?
I need a new law.
Many countries have passed laws permitting men to download an application, fill it out, upload it and get a certificate stating they are now, unquestionably, incontrovertibly, absolutely, positively, and no-backtalk-from-you-Missy a full-fledged woman.
And if anyone says otherwise she can get that person cancelled, fired, ruined, and possibly assassinated.
I mean, that’s her identity, man! I mean woman! And who are any of us to question how she really feels?
I have always felt like a really gorgeous rail-thin almost criminally sexy supermodel. When I was three I dreamed of being a princess, and then a hula dancer (I grew up in Florida), and then a belly dancer (it was the ‘70s), and then a supermodel, which is when they were invented.
But my evil awful fascist Nazi hateful bigoted parents said, “Sweetheart, don’t be ridiculous. You need to prepare for a real job. Like, one that doesn’t require you to suck a lot of penises just to get a photo shoot.”
My parents were soooooo negative and toxic.
They made me go to college for four years but I still really felt like I was really a supermodel. I mean, I’m so freaking gorgeous! How could they not see that?
My mother was so unaffirming. She was like, “You’re a pretty girl, Precious, but it wouldn’t be fair to tell you you’re outstandingly gorgeous when you’re not. Maybe you will be once you’re past puberty but I wouldn’t count on it. I’m not Raquel Welch, you know. And your father isn’t Cary Grant. And anyway, what you look like isn’t as important as how beautiful you are on the inside.”
Isn’t that just such a Vile Mean Mom thing to say?
Okay, so I didn’t have enough money yet to dye my hair blonde and Mom was too cheap to give me the money for it. She went off on another one of her irrelevant tangents: “Your father works hard to keep a roof over our heads and for enough food every week and to keep the lights and water on. We’re supporting two cars along with you and your brother and you don’t need blonde hair, you’re pretty enough as you are.”
How was I ever going to become marry a top CEO with a mother like that???
I especially began feeling like a beautiful young supermodel after I turned 40 but that was during my Dead Life, Dead Name time. My real name is Lilac Jade Kinga, Supermodel And Global Star.
I really really hate it when people refuse to affirm me. I mean, it makes me so mad I want to take up my cuticle scissors and STAB THEM! Because killing myself would be thoughtless. Why deprive the world of my great beauty and awesome awesomeness just because haters and BURPs (Beauty Uninclusive Radical Pissants) refuse to affirm me? I will make then affirm me! I will get that law passed so I, too, can get a certificate stating that I am in fact a really sexy young woman. I can shove it under rich men’s noses and demand that they take me out to an insanely expensive restaurant somewhere in Europe from their private jet and treat me to a dinner whose price exceeds the average gross salary of the Czech Republic, and that’s not even including the free-flowing Louis Roederer Cristal Brut 3L French champagne.
Anyone who doesn’t do it is glamsphobic and needs to be cancelled out of every last dollar he has!
You wouldn’t believe what some of these spoiled, coddled, narcissistic, vicious pricks have said to me!
“Lady, if you’re a day under 60 I’ll eat my Nick Fouquet Savage Coast hat. Now get outta my Acura!”
The nerve of that guy! I began a campaign to cancel him on Facebook for treating a mega-hottie like me like that, but you know what he did? He cancelled my account! I told him he couldn’t do that and he said yes he could because he owns Facebook.
Jerk!!!
And then there was the mega-billionaire who laughed at me when I said we should go take a spin in his rocket ship. He said even Amber Heard wasn’t that bold, and that I should come look him up in my next incarnation but before I’m old enough to buy alcohol.
That’s really rich, coming from someone who’s impregnated half the United States!!!
I am grossly offended that Donald Trump has never once attempted to grab me by the you-know-what.
And then there are the extremely unkind and non-validating comments I’ve gotten from people about my Dead Weight.
I would like to remind everyone that some anorexic supermodels have a few extra pounds around the middle and occasionally a double chin. And that laugh lines are not wrinkles.
You are whatever you feel you are. Feelings are incontrovertible evidence. They’re the strongest kind there is. My ‘lived experience’ is that of a globetrotting supermodel with rich men panting for me around every corner. It’s absolutely intolerable that others don’t agree, and clearly they need to be forced. By law if necessary.
Let’s be honest: Age is just a social construct. I feel so mentally damaged when people say that if I can talk about living in the ‘70s I can hardly be nineteen years old.
That’s not the point. The point is that this is how I identify. If Caitlyn Jenner can be who she is when she wasn’t not so long ago, why can’t I be who I am? The very embodiment of youthful babeliciousness?
I live as a supermodel. I’m always walking around in a bikini because I love showing off my beautiful body. And I don’t appreciate the neighbors asking me if I’m pregnant or something.
You would not believe some of the persecution I face because I have chosen to be my authentic self and not let the haters in the ‘reality-based community’ define me.
I’ve been physically attacked by the police just because I tried to get into a club whose maximum age limit is 25. The bouncer who threw me out said I need to go home and take a good long look in the mirror.
I get constantly triggered by identity critics who say I am biologically aging and that my butt sags more than a low-riding teenager’s pants. Or that I’m harming young people with offensive ‘teenface’. Or that I’m destroying beauty pageants because I successfully sued the Miss Teen USA organization to force them to let me compete since I identify as a 19-year-old.
And the worst of it is just the day-to-day battle against people who insist that you can’t stay 19 forever, that it’s time for me to acknowledge I’m a grown-up, and that I need to move out of the house since my parents want to sell it and move to a retirement community in Boca Raton. Which I’m happy to do because they’re so toxic and bigoted and horrible about age identity I need to cut them out of my life entirely.
I feel so unsafe when people say, “Cut the crap old-timer, I went to school with you and we both had Princess phones!” and “Get out of the frat house, Grandma, we’re way too young for you!” and the worst of all, when a Boy Scout calls me, “Ma’am,” and asks if I need help crossing the street.
You have no idea what it’s like to live in a glamsphobic world, surrounded by haters and BURPs who are just jealous because I’m super-hot and they’re not.
My life stinks. The world is full of haters. My mother thinks I should become a teacher. I am a gorgeous glamorous drop-dead sexy supermodel, and I can’t get everyone to validate me.
People are so narcissistic, egotistical and selfish!
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