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Poor creatures. Brittle-boned leather-skinned skeletons. Ignorant. Retarded. Miserable. Mad porcelain dolls. Committed to hours of painful unnecessary surgery for vanity and their glass-eyed keepers. They look like vampires indeed they are vampires. Sucking from the public tit. They are going to live forever!
Poor pathetic creatures. Endlessly turning in front of the mirror. The reality cameras. Strapped in, oh no, the fatal flaw; a shallow chin, a bump on the nose, teacup breasts, old age. There’s always a fix.
The glass-eyed keepers.Their self-worth abstracted to their money, positions, wives. What can they say? Everything must be propped up. Nothing stands on its own anymore except the illusions that drape their lives, oozing from their pores as they are woo whooing in a limo or huffing and puffing on a golf course while the wives sitting poolside, giggle together, “Ugly people should not be allowed near the pool” take each other apart, self-aggrandize, parrot for the lens, caught in their own thought bubbles.
For a lucky few, the botched facelift; scar tissue, hanging flesh, lopsided face, the sad clown, the Oprah interview. “Oprah, I learned that there is more to life then a pretty face and that one should accept themselves and others as they are and that we are spirits in a material world.” “Amen, sister.” They break for commercial, it’s a spot for Victoria’s Secret, what were they talking about?
Back in the gated communities the poor pathetic boorish creatures continue unabated, it is simply beyond them; no retreat, up the security. They’ll get to heaven like an elephant through a keyhole.
Let us hope that there will be a lot more botched facelifts in the future. Their lives may depend on it.