The New Deal
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Ok. So we're at war. The world could end any day now...
When I look at myself in the mirror, there's one questions that keeps echoing in my head...
If I die tomorrow - will I have lived my life at my sexiness potential?
The answer is no. I have a far way to go in the sexiness category. My skin never cleared up all the way, my legs have razor bumps on them, and I only wear jeans and those sweatshirts with the hoods in boring "winter" colors. I don't wear enough makeup. My posture is bad. If I die tomorrow, I will die utterly unsexy.
In the last few weeks, I have taken steps to remedy the situation. I wore a skirt one day. I claimed an abandoned push-up bra from my roommate. I dyed my hair. I wore taller shoes. These steps, though noteworthy, were just further proof of my own self-deception.
In seventh grade I would sneak into the school library at lunch and read the teenage magazines in the laminated covers. Each of the magazines had its own modeling contest. "Teen" had the Miss Teen America Contest. "Seventeen" had the Model of the Year contest. "Tiger Beat" had the win-a-date-with-Balthazar-Getty contest. The girls who won these contests were so beautiful, so sexy, and so awesome. I knew it was because they followed the mandates of the magazine. They did the sit-ups. They left the conditioner on their hair for twenty minutes. They washed their faces three times a day (once after school, if you can believe it.) I promised myself I would follow these rules. I would achieve their level of perfection.
At some point, I got lazy.
But now is the time. I may have only a few days before the anthrax turns my lungs to jelly, before the atom bomb blast vaporizes me, before I become another victim.
I refuse to show up in heaven unsexy. I refuse to show up in hell unsexy. I refuse to live one more day without achieving my potential. I will show you, Miss Teen America. I will show you, Balthazar Getty. When the world ends, the only thing remaining will be a plaque, and that plaque will be dedicated to the sexiest girl of this or any other century.
And guess who that person will be?
Awww. You guessed it.
Eva Anderson's plague will be a pretty plague.