To the Soul Who Occupies Me,
Give me a fucking break. Quit staring mournfully at your reflection as though I’ve failed you somehow. As if your rolls and muffin-tops and wrinkles somehow hinder your ability to live your life. As if I don’t give you enough—eyes to see, a tongue to taste, a voice to speak, two ears to listen, nerves to feel, lungs to breathe, a heart to beat, a brain to think, legs to carry you and feet to keep you standing, arms and hands to reach and hold and to create, even an ass to sit on when you need a break—and you’re complaining that your dick and/or tits aren’t big enough? Go fuck yourself.
Do you know how much work went into building this body? How many billions of years it took me to evolve? All the elements I’m made of? Where they came from? I bet you didn’t know (or maybe you did) that some of your ingredients wouldn’t exist if it hadn’t been for a distant supernova—the death of a massive star, combusting, heating, fusing and releasing all the elements your body is composed of—billions of years before the creation of our solar system and the birth of our own sun. The universe has had your body’s blueprints in the works longer than I think you realize. A lot of love and care and/or coincidence and chance went into your intricate design, and each human form is complex and exquisite and capable of things that other creatures couldn’t dream of, and yet, your boobs aren’t big enough / your belly isn’t tight enough / your muscles aren’t defined enough.
What do you think this is? A beauty pageant? I’m not something to be judged, I’m just a vessel to be lived in. I don’t appreciate your disappointment, and quite frankly I’m repeatedly insulted by your lack of gratitude. Get naked and go look in the mirror. Try to conceptualize how many cells you’re made of, and how lucky you are to be made of them.