It seemed the world had been taken over. Dominated by faces and bodies so perfect they were freakish. Patrician noses that were once crooked. Straight, white veneers that masked 20 years of chain smoking.
She sneered at the trout pouts. Mocked the surgically enhanced feet that would be forced in to unforgiving shoes. Such vanity. Such desperation for social acceptance.
‘Why don’t you ask your boyfriend to take care of his physical inadequacies first?’ she asked friends who were under pressure to go up a cup.
The medias obsession with physical perfection made her ill. She wrote impassioned letters to networks that commissioned plastic surgery reality shows. Look 10 Years Younger. The Swan. Extreme Makeover. What was the point? So that mourners would have something nice to look at as they passed by your open casket? So that the worms and maggots that would feast off your flesh would have plump, botoxed skin to feed off.
Her friends took none of her rants seriously.
‘What do you know about sagging boobs and flabby thighs. You’re gorgeous and thin.’
‘Plenty’ she thought as she stuck her finger down her throat for the fourth time that day.