It’s true, I want to be a sexy babe on Tumblr. To be 19 years old, unaware of all the turmoil lurking just around the next corner of existence. To have amber-colored skin that is always covered with a fine mist of delicate goosebumps, signaling to everyone around me my perpetual state of arousal. And a thick mane of flaxen hair that invites men to pull it in passionate displays of unbridled sexual attraction. I want to be a size-4 with rosy breasts as adorable and delicious as Florida grapefruits. Perfect breasts defying all laws of gravity. Cheerful nipples that invite a gentle touch. I want a hairless body, from my upper-lip to my lower-ankle, and a fashionable Barbie Wa. Neat and tidy like a freshly picked apricot. I would love to have incredible thighs, firm yet yielding, open…I would like to be able to sashay effortlessly in 8 centimeter heels on cobblestone paths without risking my fragile life. In my exorbitantly expensive new shoes, I would be obliged to continuously arch my back in a grotesquely seductive manner, making my suddenly phenomenal, up-turned ass protrude even farther towards the heavens of carnal experiences, a visa for travel towards illicit pleasures of the flesh.
In case I am never published or even Freshly Pressed, in that highly unlikely scenario, that cruel twist of fate, I think I would enjoy becoming a self-portrait photographer. I would differentiate myself from the narcissistic, curvaceous masses (not to say that I am not the most narcissistic person I have ever met) by using only a Quaker Oats canister camera that I would make myself after eating the contents of the box. With whole milk, salted butter and a big pinch of brown sugar. And dried apricots. This high-carb breakfast would have no effect on my overwhelming, uncontrollable sex-appeal. Hell, I would even eat a banana and two slices of toast with butter and peanut butter, not just a smidgen but a thick layer. If I felt like it, I would greedily consume four slices of crispy bacon as well, leaving a suspicious greasy trail on my lips and my cleft-chin. Then I would wash it all down with an opaque, discreet mug of chilled white wine. With an unusually high alcohol content, product of Global Warming at its best. At around 9:15AM. This enormous display of gluttony would make no difference whatsoever, no dimples, no unsightly bulges. Nope. I would ingest all of that and still have an infamously famous Thigh Gap the size of my already perfect waist. (Phew! My one saving grace.)