So I'm utterly fantastic. I mean just brilliant.
I'm the kind of woman you all look at, every single last green eyed one of you. You all stare lustily at me, the representation of the dream. You can't pull your gaze away from my bouyant black curls cascading onto the pristine shoulders of one of my many perfectly taliored suits. As I powerwalk past you without even glancing down you long for my impossibly spikey shoes, to wear them, to own them, to fuck me in them; whatever way it is that you look at me, you'll be looking at me.
But then it's easy to pull that apart. Isn't it? My gleaming white teeth cost more than you earned last year so I must be stupid. I must be the wittering dolly-bird of some midget-cocked executive who won't let me drive the Mercedes unless he's not in it. Or an actress. Or a footballers slag wife. Well unlucky. I am more than those women, those asinine paintings of girls. Underneath this apparant veneer of perfection there is real fullness and integrity.
I am everything my world says I should be. I am educated, self-made to extravagant success, sociable, open-minded and, a smattering of justified arrogance aside, not a totally unbearable human being.
You want to be me, or you want to have me. I definitely want to be me and given half a chance I'd definitely fuck me as well! As an individual I am as close to perfection in every way I was taught to understand.
As one of two I am nothing. I am alone.