Saturday, January 12, 2008

Letters to Fluorescent Lights

Dear Fluorescent Lights,

Fuck you. Seriously, I'm just going to come right out and say it-- fuck you. Do you seriously have nothing better to do then make what might have been a good shopping day into something out of my worst nightmares? You know, I felt good about myself. Those jeans were fitting a little looser and my hair was looking amazing enough that, if I were to run into an old flame, I would be able to feel confident that we could make polite conversation, after which he would go bang his head against his car door, wondering why on earth he had ever let me be the proverbial "one who got away." Tom Cruise had not tried to convert me to Scientology (RIP My opinion of Will Smith...). It was a good day. And then I get into the dressing room. And I strip to my underwear. And I glance-- only glance at first-- at myself in the mirror. And everything was ruined. Could you be less sensitive to my needs? When I'm at home, my stomach does not look nearly that gigantic. Nor do my thighs appear to have as much cellulite as Tyra Banks claims plagues her ass. What the hell?! You know, maybe those outfits would've satisfied me if I hadn't started my fitting by looking at what appeared to be Jabba the Hut or some such monstrosity in the mirror.

It's all your fault. I hate you.

Please don't write back.



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