Crimes of Comparison

Look at that woman; look at her hair, her face, her body, her life.
Look at the way she gracefully floats by; carrying only the weight of the eyes fixed on her around.
Flawless. Magnificent. Beautiful.

I need to overthink this and compare myself to her immediately.

Look at me; my hair, my face, my body, my life.
My hair’s been quite lackluster lately; probably because of the countless times I’ve dyed it, just so as not to look as dull as I feel.
Even in my early 20’s, my face is already showing lines and spots that won’t fade without some help from plastic hands.
My body, well, even after all the weight I’ve lost to try and find a place to fit it, I still don’t see thin when I look in the mirror.
Look at all those stretch marks and those craters in my thighs. I bet she doesn’t have any of that.
Look at my life; I don’t have people look at me in awe like that. I don’t feel fabulous or good enough when I walk into a room.
I don’t have the money to buy nice clothes, or to do my nails every month; my clothes are average and my nail-polish is always chipped away at because of some house chores or just anything really.
I don’t have so many friends, I barely even have one.
People suck; why doesn’t she suck?

What’s wrong with me?

How can I ever measure up to someone like her?

Wait.

Let me compare myself to someone worse off than me so I can feel better again.

Attagirl. 

 

 

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