I am nothing you couldn’t buy at a corner convenience store. Cheap makeup and stiff hairspray form me, give me shape and body, and stop the invisibility that creeps around my edges. Basically, I’m protein and calcium and water, neatly bundled up—packaged for your purchase.
Tell me, Skinflint, why you’re willing to pay? You wouldn’t buy a one-fifty bottle of water at the baseball game, when you were practically dying of thirst because you thought it was too expensive. You bought me a bracelet just because you thought I’d like it. You confuse me, Spendthrift.
As you pet my hair and ask me if there’s anything I need, I think of that convenience store. Only sheer luck has stopped me from being there—were I there, you’d not look at me twice. I can’t help but wonder why you’re willing to pay for something so insignificant.
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