Kristian MichailWhen I see a person in a wheelchair, an instinctual thought follows: ‘That poor person.’ Nobody deserves such a shitty hand in life. I begin to imagine how hard it would be to live in their body. A state of gratitude that I am not them kicks in. But the deeper feeling is one of sadness. That life can be so cruel to even the nicest of people. Strangely, this is not the maximum limit of my sympathy.
When I see a woman and her botox-filled lips, I feel even worse. Here you have a pretty young woman, sometimes no older than twenty, with no physical ailments and signs of deformity, butchering her mouth, her essence, and her dignity with a socially warped dose of cosmetic poison. Their once unique smile morphs into a disturbing template of artificial mutilation. The structure of their face now betrays itself. The chemical trace, the rubber skin, the rock-hard flesh pouting an aesthetic tragedy. “I don’t like what I see in the mirror.”
It’s mostly already pretty woman that throw their money into this bottomless pit of poison. Natural beauties that the average person only dreams of. Average lookers are wiser for the most part. They know that getting their lips done won’t make them ‘hotter’. They realise that the only long-term solution is going inward and appreciating the magic within. That the radiance they may extract from inside their soul will have more effect on their outward appearance than any amount of chemicals ever could.
The skin will wrinkle. The titties will sag. The face will age. Prepare yourself accordingly. By trying to dodge the cycle of death in your cells, you’ll be seduced down an alternate path of even more lies. Where the thing you feared comes back harder and faster to hurt you. Where the salvation you had hoped for actually haunts instead. And that’s the word. Haunts. The beauty of millions is haunted by the torment of their own souls. Why aren’t their friends telling them the truth? Oh yeh. Because their friends also have their lips done.
Rant Complete.