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Barbie

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Tall as a supermodel;
Legs that go on forever;
Arms that are perfect for any type of shirt or top or dress;
Bright Blue Ocean colored eyes;
Sun kissed blonde hair;
Plump, pink lips;
Flawless cheeks with not a zit in sight;
Rosy, blushed cheeks;
Perfectly manicured nails and perfectly pedicured toenails with nice glossy French tips;
Skin soft as a newborn baby.

She walks with her nose up as if everyone around her smells like rotten cheese.
Her IQ is a double digit;
Her vocabulary consists of Gucci, Prada, Fendi, Louis vutton, and Chanel;
Every girl wants to be her; every guy wants to be in her;
She spends every penny her parents make;
Her closet has a map because it’s so big;
Her car is imported straight from Italy;
Her friends only use her for her money;
Guys only use her for her looks and easiness.

But at night she cries and cries herself to sleep;
She wishes that she could be a normal girl;
And have a normal family where her parents don’t argue every waking minute;
And a family where they have dinner together every night and watch movies together;
And a family where her mother takes her shopping and her father takes her to watch
Football games;
She wishes she had friends who liked her for her and not her money;
Friends who she can have sleepovers with and gossip all night about boys with;
Friends who she can tell her little secrets with and giggle with them about something that happened five years ago.
She wishes that she could bring home A’s that her parents will post on the refrigerator door.
She wishes she didn’t have to try to make herself feel better by putting others down.
She wishes that she didn’t have to make herself better by letting boys go down on her.
She wishes she could just be a normal teenager and not pure, hard, plastic like her Mastercard.





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