Don't Fix What's Broken, I Like to Wallow in My Misery

My writing comes from the chasm of self-hatred a Disney Princess dug in my soul.

Psychologists argue that the latest self-love revolution is beneficial for our nation's mental health. From Lady Gaga to One Direction, pop stars actually sending kids positive messages has been seen as a savior from above. Ideally, girls thin enough to make even a vegetarian like me stuff a big mac down their throats will stop mid-purge. They will dump out their laxatives and flush them with their half-digested SlimFast shakes (if those still exist). The morbidly obese will drop their supersize fries and run for the gym, to nurture their bodies, not hate them! And the otherwise deformed will stop torturing themselves and start avoiding mirrors like the plague. However, this isn't the ideal world. You see, it's great for all the people who love themselves: it's cool now! But for the self-loathing authors of the world, this is doomsday. It goes like this:

Pretty popular girls keep being pretty and popular. Fat kids still feel fat: it's easy to love yourself when half the world's heterosexual men and three-quarters of its lesbians would give their right testicle to sleep with you. Sure a few gay kids meet the loves of their lives at concerts or through shared interest in collecting Gaga paraphernalia, but starving rich girls will keep starving, and no their vomit cannot be used to feed African children.

What, you don't believe me? You think that a passing word from a girl with fire shooting out of her breasts can turn around years of daddy issues? Okay, let's say it does. Self-love becomes cool. Hipsters have got that one down (maybe for the worse) and the wannabes pick up on it. Suddenly, they no longer want to be anything because they love themselves the way they are, for their awesome skills. Yippitee Doodle; kitties and rainbows. High School Musical: I can bake!

WHAT ABOUT ME, NIALL, LIAM, HARRY, ZAYN, AND LOUIS??? My writing comes from the chasm of self-hatred a Disney Princess dug in my soul. What happens when you fill that thing with unadulterated happiness? My only skill shrivels and dies, and with it the force of my life. I become inebriated, debilitated by those happy happy la-la hallucinogens. The only genuine reason I should be pleased with myself shrivels as the well of liquified pain dries up. Lady Gaga, One Direction, Dove, you have to understand. If loving yourself is cool, it will only give the people who hate themselves another reason to hate themselves. "Look at that girl over there, I wish I could love myself like she does. But no, I'm a worthless little twit."

Besides, the only way for me to be good enough is to think I'm not good enough. So, if you siphon off the misery brooding within my soul and replace it with genuine emotion, I will snap your little rainbows in half and show you what a real monster looks like. In other words, I will take off my clothes and expose you all to my grotesque body, cellulose, misaligned breasts and all. Maybe it's best if we don't encourage ugly people to get naked.

The End

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