Today I am consumed by perpetual guilt, largely dominated by the fact I am a hopeless romantic who does not conform to general 21st century ideals of what a good looking woman entails.

Much to my misfortune, I do not have curves in places which would appeal to anybody's tastes. Every day I become increasingly grateful for clothes which hang in such a way which forgive and mask my treacherous, pale carcass. I do not belong to a culture which allows me to obscure my face into hiding, so I am forced to cause suffering to whoever witnesses my bruise framed eyes and morbidly shaped nose at a time when I do not care to improve it.

Night time is filled with intrusive thoughts, and the biggest fear of all; who will lie in bed with me and endure my scar littered skin, my insulting body, and myself, starved and drained of self-worth?
One thing is certain: If I was anyone other than myself, I sure wouldn't.