Doll.

I’m the doll you love until you realize your neighbor Sally has the Deluxe version with blinking eyes, a glowing heart, and baby-sweet voice so in resentment you smash your doll’s face into the ground, snip her hair, and take a pen to her arms and legs like a samurai.

Sally’s doll? She’s perfection. She has bountiful curls with almond-shaped green eyes and legs for days. She’s popular and hip and her laugh fills the room with confident glee and she can hold a conversation on basketball and politics. She’s super photogenic and everyone considers themselves lucky to know her.

I hold none of those characteristics and am left, legs distorted and hair in tangles, at the bottom of the toy chest, only to be taken out when a guest you dislike comes over and you’re bad at sharing the good stuff.

I once read: “We were all born so beautiful / The greatest tragedy is being convinced we are not.” That’s fucking sweet and all but there isn’t a single person alive who can convince me that I’m anything but the oddly-shaped, bootleg Barbie that a half-buzzed, no-show dad picks up on clearance on December 26th at Family Dollar.

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