My makeup call wasn’t some light switch of empowerment. From as early as preschool I feared that if I didn’t grow up to be the pretty princess men fawned over, I was a failure. That mentality was my disease. It got me raped. It made me feel dirty and devalued because my cherry wasn’t popped on a bed of rose petals. Furthermore, it fueled an adolescence juggling starvation and vomiting until my throat bled out, and my stomach acid burned through the plumbing. Furthermore, it made me snort coke, smoke meth, and routinely gulp down narcotic Petra dishes in hopes of obtaining hallucinogenic intimacy with junkie boyfriends. But most of all, it made me waste my youth chasing, obsessing over, fighting for, worshiping, clinging to, and crying over one after another loser. At some point, I just quit giving a fuck.

Just Another Number