No longer satisfied with judging myself against the flawed and disgustingly organ-filled bodies of my fellow human ladies, I have now graduated to obsessively coveting the sexy and shapely torso of the perfume bottle that sits on my dresser.

Is she just a headless glass vessel meant to further objectify the female form in order to turn a profit? Maybe. But she’s also kind of a stuck-up bitch who isn’t even that pretty if you squint.

I know I shouldn’t be comparing myself to her because we’re all on our own journey and all women are beautiful and amazing, but I can’t help but notice that my arms are flabbier than hers ever are or probably ever will be.

To be fair, she has no arms so she automatically wins on that front, but still.

She also has a killer thigh gap which has kept me up every night for the past week contemplating whether I should just shatter her on the floor or keep going to SoulCycle every day to shatter my quads.

My therapist keeps reminding me that she just straight up doesn’t have any legs at all but that’s exactly why she’s crushing it while I am stuck buying Brazilian Bum Bum Cream at $45 a pop at Sephora to pretend that it gets rid of my cellulite.

It's so unfair that she gets to sit there looking aloof and perfect with the magical breasts of Sophia Vergara and the equally magical not-arms of the Venus De Milo. I bet if she bent down she’d have no stomach rolls.

Because she’s made entirely of glass.

Yet another advantage she has over me and my perpetually degrading corporeal being that needs stupid shit like food and water and exercise and love.

I keep trying to hate her but I can’t pretend that I don’t admire her confidence. She’s naked literally all of the time and really rocks it. So what if she’s a damaging marketing ploy created out of the need to signal to both men and women that our bodies should look like literal sculpted glass even when it’s unrealistic and largely unattainable without copious amounts of privilege, money, and time?


I guess for now I’ll let her stay on my dresser. Frenemies seems like a fair label at the moment.

Maybe she’s a good motivation tool for me to try and better myself. Or maybe we’ve just reached the singularity of women feeling disconnected from their own real-life bodies and she’s just the inevitable end stage of a centuries-long tradition of forcing women to subconsciously gauge their worth in comparison to other bodies, both real and artificial! I don’t know!

Whatever… She’s probably had work done.