My skin is so perfect it only shines where it’s supposed to shine. I have no freckle out of place; the ones that I have are only there to be attractive. My hair only waves where my features come out the most. I look at the mirror and bloody hell, sorry, but I can’t help smiling at myself. I don’t know the word “frizzy” and even less the word “cellulitis”. My legs don’t touch each other; I got so much interleg space that they’re planning to open a new Panama channel there. I haven’t got a gramme of hanging, bumbling, dancing, disgusting fat in my body. I can shake any part of myself at any time of the day, any day of the week. Try to catch me, ‘cause you won’t be able. My measurements, not even Michelangelo could’ve designed them better. I’m build by the angels. I am that dreamy thing. I’m pretty hot.

I really don’t care that Beyoncé now sings that perfection doesn’t matter dressed up in a very tight American beauty contest and wearing bunny ears. And her perfect smile. How can she have teeth so…. teethy? So square, so white, so neat. On her new video she makes a super sharp, super deep and not obvious at all criticism to the image obsession. “Perfection is the disease of a nation, pretty hurts”, she says. Hum. She says that. The one and only übercelebrity Beyoncé. “Blonder hair, flat chest, TV says bigger is better”. The one that probably has an entire crew taking care of her body. The rest of us have to be happy with some Instagram filters and little more. Perfection doesn’t matter when you’re already perfect, Beyoncé. Do me a favour.

‘Cause the day less expected what happened to Scarlett Johansson could happen to you. You know, the classic naked picture that doesn’t attract attention at all to the new film release miraculously leaks on the Internet and she’s harshly criticized because she’s not the Greek goddess they hoped she was and that only exists in the dream world, by the way. Scarlett has gravity problems here and there, as it seems. It’s interesting, after seeing her in countless covers looking like an earthly Aphrodite. Lighting works wonders, but if you want miracles, you should go to Lourdes.

Wait, forget about Lourdes, prayers and holy water. There’s a better and more accesible option that will avoid you finding yourself surrounded by old ladies with fluffy hair grubbing their rumps against some holy rock to get their sciatica cured and also to help them find a new boyfriend. To get yourself an express miracle you don’t have to hop in a France bound bus full of retired people; there’s a little blue icon, with a P, that beautiful P, P for possibility, P for “pimp my body”, P for “pretty? here!”. P for Photoshop.

They’re now saying there’s lobbys (I always imagine people from lobbys as if they were The Simpson’s Stonecutters) in the USA that will try to pass a law in the congressest congress in the world to limit the usage of Photoshop in advertising to avoid creating false stereotypes in society. Now the game is off. No more flat stomachs, no more edgy hips that look more like stalactites, no more gravity defying breasts. Now people will start looking like they are in real life. How boring, reality.

I will keep on being pretty hot, being perfect, being flat where I have to be flat. What are you saying? That that girl described is not me? That I’ve gone too far? Those are questions I don’t care for. I’ve decided to do like advertising does to see if I get more readers. If they can convince us to buying a bikini because they’ve photoshopped the model until turning it into another person, I’m going to get more hits on our website being (fake) “hot”. Now I do written Photoshop. Pretty moral, huh?