Dyspeptalk #1.

“I know my life isn’t too long, and with a lifespan of only a couple of years, a girl’s gotta do what she’s gotta do.

Making compromises becomes a big part of your life when you know you are expendable to the world.
I don’t complain, I’ve had my moments too. The time I was brought to the shop for the first time, on the back of a minivan, a guy held me close while the van jumped across puddles and potholes. He cupped my hard plastic breasts, and in his hand, I found warmth that burned me bitter than the summer sun overhead. He was young and brittle, and I wondered if mine were the first breasts he had touched.

I’ve seen men secretly stare at me while their wives bought lingerie they pretended would please their husbands. I didn’t know if it made me a bad person, being the object of desire in a slowly dying marriage.
This one time, a girl fought with the store manager, complaining that the dress didn’t look the same way on her as it did on me, and now her boyfriend refused to be with her.

I won’t lie, it felt good, once I got the gist of things. Having people look up to you, trying to measure up to your hip size, or your thigh gap, or your skin colour.
Sometimes moulded plastic is more precious than flesh and skin and what lies under it.

I’ve had too much of vanity to plug my individuality with, and now it doesn’t feel important anymore.”

What’s the worst part about being a mannequin?

That I was one from a manufactured batch of thousand identical twins, and I never got to see them again.

And that my body was made according to the specifications of the society, not my soul.”

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