I am often spread-eagled in the nude. This is not for sex. This is just my personality.
My friends are naked a lot too. Again, not for sex. More because we have the same personality. Water seeks its own level, I suppose.
My hair is unmanageably disheveled, and there is a brush stuck inside it. On the bright side, look at that volume! I cannot get the brush out, and rather than try to, I plan to cut it out of my hair and rock a bob.
As I lay naked, my limbs askew, I have a perpetual smile on my face from botox (not from happiness). I am made of plastic.
There is nothing behind my eyes. Or inside my head.
I think I might be depressed. Sometimes when I’m really depressed, I violently scissor my naked gal pals. But even when I scissor them, my facial expression doesn’t change and I feel nothing. Sigh.
My relationships with men are unfulfilling. I continue to make love to men with no balls. No balls at all. They seem like happy and strong men, but they are dull and without scrotums.
One of my male lovers had sex with one of my friends because he “thought it was me.” I guess I can’t blame him. We do all wear the same brand of tattooed lipstick.
I fall over all the time. I’d like to blame the strange shape of my body for my lack of balance, but I know it’s just because I’m drunk.
I’ve maxed out all my credit cards on high heels I can’t walk in, ugly hats, overpriced ballgowns, and dogs that are the same color as my underwear.
My dream house is under foreclosure and full of overturned beds and desks. I am having a nervous breakdown.
I keep dressing for jobs I want. The other day I dressed up as a flight attendant in my room, and then just went to sleep. The next day I put on a lawyer’s pants suit, but then just got high in my room. The next day I put on a superhero cape and accidentally tripped over my daughter.
My career is a figment of my imagination. I’m not the CEO of a cupcake company, the President of the United States, a famous rockstar, an entrepreneur with my own Etsy jewelry store, or an Instagram avocado influencer. It’s all in my head. My gorgeous head. I know that if I wanted to, I could be those things, even though I’m already an adult and that ship has sailed. But honestly, I could be if I really wanted to!
This is weird, but sometimes I feel like society is controlling my every move and making me think that I can be things that I actually can’t be, because of gender inequality. Is that crazy? It’s almost like I’m just a pawn in society’s sad, sick, anti-feminist game. Is THAT crazy? I should calm down. Maybe this is all in my head. My pretty, gorgeous head.
I never fart.