May 22, 2006 15:25
The day I am most self-concious, the day I hate my body the most, the day I fear hot weather because of my ugly scars...
an entry form for National Miss America Pageant comes in the mail.
Irony? I think not.
I thought irony wasnt supposed to kill you.
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Comments 7
That's twisted.
You should rip it up, and burn it, and inflict major pain on that poor piece of paper.
And then send hate mail to the NMAP.
With lots of big, intelligent words that they won't understand.
(Yes, I sterotype pagent people... sorry.)
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Seriously, how can they send me an entry form if they dont know how I look like? WTF?
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And now, continuing my crusade to make people feel better, I found this mix that you might like; http://7thfloor.livejournal.com/77398.html
At least, it struck me as something you might like. Terribly sorry if you don't!
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I read some of the lyrics, they are pretty nice. Hmm, they seem more thinspirational to me *shrugs*
I will never be a model :( Not that I wanted to, of course, but hey, who doesnt want fame? Maybe I will be famous for discovering a new medicine. That's much more productive.
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