Stephanie Santiago I have a question; why in this beautiful world that we live in, would you fix your mouth and tell all the women of the world whom are naturally beautiful, naturally built, naturally curvy…(short,tall,big,small) to go be as insecure as u are & go get a surgical procedure such as the one u had done to u done to them. Honestly why? Why encourage them to go spend thousands of dollars on a procedure that will put them through reoccurring pain and suffering as oppose to encouraging them to just embrace what God gave them & taking it to a gym or out doors to enhance it naturally with a little sweat and hard work. And I’m not hating or throwing shade I’m just wondering why u would use your establishment to send such a bad message. I have a little girls who unfortunately have grow up and see like Kylie every time they turn on a TV or surf the web, just for yall to say “hey ugly if you wanna look good and feel good as me, go do God knows what for 30 thousand dollars and spend it on cosmetic surgery” instead of telling them “hey gorgeous, God don’t make mistakes & you are perfectly fine the way God made you!”
It’s almost a daily occurrence now. On Facebook or Twitter, in an article or mind-numbing listicle, someone is discussing the traits, burdens and/or pleasures of being an introvert. Based on the unscientific sampling of my personal feed, 90% of the narcissistic self-promoters in the world are actually meek and shy introverts.
When us loners aren’t breathlessly talking about how weird it is that we prefer books to people (haha, I’m soooo crazy!), we’re posting the results of a Briggs Myers personality test (or some generic knockoff).
“I’m totally an INFP.”
“Well, I’m an ENFJ.”
“Oh, I could definitely see that. I guess that’s because I’m an ENTP.”
“I kind of figured all of you were CUNTs.”
And when we get bored with scientific classifications that mostly mean nothing, we fall back on the original sugar pill of personality labels: The Zodiac.
What’s Your Sign?
How is it that a…
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I like the idea that somebody, somewhere is made for you. Forever!
Powerful powerful letter
I don’t know your name, but you killed my father on June 9, 1973, in Stockton, California. My father was thirty-two years old then; I was ten. If he had lived, he would have been 74 on November 29th.
I am a 51-year-old woman now; my father has not been with me for most of my life, and yet I still feel his presence; I still miss him. When I was ten, and he was killed, I hated you. In fact, I hated you for many, many years. Somehow I got it in my head that you were a drunk driver and killed him while driving drunk. Perhaps someone told me that, or maybe it’s just what a child creates, to make sense of a senseless world. Admittedly, that story helped me for a while. It gave me a place to focus my…
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