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I Think I'm Ugly

I think I’m ugly. I look in the mirror and I see a squash face and apple seed eyes. I want to be pretty. So I’m going to be pretty. I take a knife and begin to carve. I carve myself nice, chiseled cheekbones. I cut away at my eyes to make them into wonderful half- moons. I whittle at my nose, creating the perfect shape, the perfect nostrils. My garish mouth is manipulated into a smiling pout and I etch a dimple into my almost perfect face. There, done. I trade my little knife for a large butcher knife. A pretty face like this needs a pretty body too. So I cut away the folds of fat that hides disgustingly under the layers of my skin. I’m skinny now, but such short legs would do me no good. I whip out my chain saw, and I break my knees apart. Wonderful, these legs are surely long enough now. My chest feels devoid of any feminine characteristic, so in goes the balloons we sure like to play with. There. Almost done. Wait, I’m not the right color! I paint myself white. There. I look in the mirror. And I think I’m pretty.





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