My Life As An Extremely Gorgeous Flawless Goddess Who Is Somehow Still Technically Human

Around the age when normal teens were going through brace-faced acne-strewn phases, I roamed the halls a knockout golden goddess—I know this because people told me all the time. I was gorgeous, and not a butter face, no, but a delicate, slender, statuesque woman with a physique carved in Aphrodite’s image: cute face, little waist, with a big behind, if you will. I’ve always been stuck at a maximum of 120 pounds no matter how hard I tried, so obviously I just sort of stumbled into modeling on a whim.

Sometimes, just to test the universe, I wear make up, though I obviously don’t need it, because I am flawless. As a result, I appear intimidating and aggressive, because I am perfect, and people have always been told perfection doesn’t exist. Well, surprise: it does! And I am it, and it’s quite a disappointing fact with which to come to terms for regular people. Speaking of the commonplace: one of the worst things about being the human manifestation of the golden ratio is that they hate you! Sometimes they even make me cry, though fortunately, since I don’t need make up, so I don’t end up with mascara down my face like ordinary women with their pitiful eyelashes.

My charmed looks do have their perks, though—I get every single job I apply for, no matter the qualifications. I’ve worked in lots of industries doing whatever I want: I’ve acted, modeled, TV hosted, done theater—basically, I have literally never been rejected, because who would reject a ten? Sucks for all the sevens and eights who dared to compete with me!

As for sevens and eights—I’ve tried to make friends with them, but they just don’t trust me. They don’t want me around their husbands, they don’t invite me to their parties, and they don’t even bother to tell me why, which is so offensive, because as the optimal conglomeration of atoms, I deserve to know, because I deserve everything! I imagine it’s because they think that, like my abs, my heart is rock hard.

Throughout my life, ruthless, rich, “attractive” women despised me — they were like, nines, so almost there, but obviously not out-of-this-world, because only I am. At my first job, nines conspired against me, and two of them were completely obsessed with me. My guess was that they had never seen someone who looked like me and were star-struck, and/or I reminded them of the girls who bullied them in middle school, when they were ugly, and when I wasn’t.

I told my bosses, who assured me that this behavior was not at all a response to my character, but because they were jealous of my immaculate complexion and bodacious bod. They simply hated me because of what I looked like, not because of how conceited and unpleasant I was.

It’s this exact thing—this noncompliance to be my friend—that has been the worst part of being beautiful. I’ve been so desperate for friends, I would take anyone—and I literally mean, even a ONE! I’m hot enough for the both of us anyway.

In terms of romance, it’s been a walk in the park, since every time I walk through the park men lock eyes with me and faint. I mean, obviously, I’m an IRL Barbie: I never have trouble getting guys. The only thing is that they only want to sleep with me! I guess I don’t blame them — I am literally irresistible!

But now, as an older woman, I must look back and wonder: what did my perfection do for me? I’ve been employed at high paying impressive jobs my entire life. But now, I’m wiser, and cursed, I fit right in with everyone else. I’ve gained a little bit of weight, because I suppose, and I’m very ashamed to admit this—I am technically a human being, and I stopped wearing make up, so now I’m less scary. So I suppose that’s that. I’m just some person now, just an anonymous sack of skin, which is honestly so bad that I could walk around naked and no one would even notice.

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