Being a supermodel sure trumps waiting tables or cleaning bed pans, let me tell you, girls. True, I still have to put up with old geezers wanting to pinch my butt, but most of them are too afraid to try it, now. The few that aren't are usually millionaires high on coke, but even they fail at it because my butt is pretty tight, and hard to pinch.

Friends call me "A" for short, but I'm not short. At 24 years old, I'm 5'10" and 120 pounds. Relatively new on the fashion scene, I was discovered late last year in my home town of Itajai, Brazil by a couple of travel writers working on a book to be titled "The Beaches of Brazil: Tourists in Search of the Next $upermodel." They didn't finish the book because they didn't have to. (One is now my agent, the other my manager.)

In the past six months I've appeared in fashion shows all over Europe, wearing designs by Dior, de la Renta, Biagiotti, Fendi, Armani, you name it. My face has appeared on the covers of Elle, Chantelaine, Harper's Bazaar, Self, You, Me, and (soon) Stuff. I should probably thank my discoverers, who braved the perils of airline food, customs searches, and lost luggage to rescue me from the outrage of poverty (and imminent rape). But what I will say is that supermodels can be as intelligent as other professional women–up to and including astrophysicists and brain surgeons. Especially we new breed of Brazilian warriors who actually read and study something other than women's magazines. (To clarify, let me now reveal that my tested I.Q. is 178.)

A word about my website, It's not up yet, because the webmaster Jon hired is having problems rendering and animating the 600 or so photos to be compiled into one of 16 server modules. The digital complexity of this cutting edge work necessitates the writing of certain new Linux algorithms to facilitate the special effects planned. For instance, if some loser moron with a laptop has a built-in camera, my eyes will be able to follow his as I parade the latest lingerie fashions in "lap dance" mode. Or if he has a built-in speaker system, my website will enable us to carry out actual conversations, via phonic recognition software. But he'll only be able to advance to the next level if he knows the answers to questions revealed in the following flash essay.


Okay, guys. Here's a couple more facts about me:

Favorite movie: Legally Blonde
Favorite music: Brazilian jazz
Favorite books: Science, history, philosophy, architecture
Favorite food: Thai
Turn-ons: Innocence, charity, kindness, intelligence
Turn-offs: Leering, drooling, bragging, pinching

Do you believe you know me now? Whether you do or not, know this: I NOW OWN YOUR BRAIN. By the very act of stringing together these words, I now control your thoughts, too, and will continue to induce memories and feelings in you (if not hormonal urges resulting from the spontaneous firing of certain neurons).

Why am I saying this? I mean, really, just who do I think I am? 

That's the question, isn't it? Think about it. Do we even know what human consciousness is? Do our brains, in fact, equal "us"? I mean, if your brain controls everything you do, this obviously means your body is only a shell. Consider that you can lose your arms and legs and still be 100% "you." Liposuction has no effect on you either, except to make your shell more attractive to other hormonally-driven brains. But if you cut out your brain? Well, that's it. You're cooked. And now you resemble a wrinkled three-pound clump of warm jelly, to boot.

That's right. The scary lesson here is that the real YOU is something you probably couldn't hold in your hand for more than three seconds before freaking out. And all this time you've been worried, too, about what some clump of jelly thinks about your own clump. At various locations all over the country these three-pound "jellies" recognize the shell holding your clump, and your clump wonders how these jellies are "doing" or "feeling," and if they're coming to visit you for what is termed a "holiday," and if the alignment of electrical impulses inside your jelly mold can ever "forgive" or "love" or "whatever" them again. Or even if you should.

Now, doctors say that our brains are "our least used organ," but that the male's "most used organ" is often referred to as having "a mind of its own." Men themselves may admit that sex is "mostly in the brain," but of course those of you saying this don't really want to play with your brains. But I do. In fact, what I want is to play with your mind, honey. Which is what I'm already doing, in case you haven't noticed. Are we having fun yet? I know I am.