sing it, tina...
i've situated my usual writing spot in front of a dimly-lit mirror today, round and tarnished, as my expression is nothing but mournful, pulled down not from the gravity centered magnetically deep inside the earth, but the closer one, sourced within my own heart. i'm in what could be the last six, pitiful weeks of my most successful bout with botox yet, and the clean, evenly-spaced ridges on my forehead that made their first appearance in months splashed mud on what would have been a pristine pair of white pants of a morning.
ok, i'm over it, but the real dramedy begins when, upon checking CNN for my daily dose of what's up, i stumble across the video of heidi montag's plastic surgeon, dr. frank ryan, heralding his latest frankensperiment as as hero. the girl with too-big titties and tranny eyes is a hero. nevermind the fact that 50 years ago today four black men took a radical stance against the racism that made their lives unbearable, and mobilized something along the lines of the civil rights movement. they weren't nearly as important as heidi's surgery and the profound effect it has had, and will exponentially continue to have, upon the well-being of this planet. those men and their so-called brazen efforts should pale in comparison. why, they probably had evenly-spaced eyes and cottage cheese thighs and nipples that lined up and--because they were students--most certainly were gifted with brains, deeming them out of miss montag's league and serving as a rich text box bordering what's sure to be several chapters in revised american history textbooks. imperfection is so passé.
heidi's plan to be the flashbulbs' biggest beauty yet severely backfired, sending obscene vibrations through her jigglies, no doubt. she just removed herself from the very spotlight she craved. nobody's taking pictures of heidi montag, anymore--they're capturing a modern day frankenstein. they don't want her story, they want her man-made curves. they want their million dollar close-up of the crowned queen of body dismorphic disorder, now that michael jackson is gone, for at least his vocation was showing people the real beauty of life through art.
i think montag's only act of heroism is the resulting gaggle of people being driven--most likely against their will, as psychological disorders can prove more crippling than physical handicaps--to therapists by friends and spouses for exhibiting similar heidious behavior. psychoanalysts and psychiatrists alike around the world are probably planning their lushest vacations in years, as they've got their work cut out, cropping what's certain to be an emulation trend of madonna proportions. parents, there's no easy way to tell your six year-old that a blepharoplasty is not for them, and heaven help those dealing with the incendiary resolve of teenagers seeking the knife as adamantly as they once vied for manic panic as a way of being 'different.' and as much diy fun as we had piercing our own belly buttons and scraping pen-ink tattoos on our ankles, plastic surgery requires anesthesia, so don't.
the quest for perfection must be a lucrative business for whom or whatever perfection is, because it's been able to finance one hell of a botched surgery job of its own, becoming both unrecognizable and elusive to all its hopeless seekers. at least when the epidermal dust dies down we'll have plenty of hoarders to watch. imperfection can be so empowering.