A terrible feminist and probably an awful human being

I am a terrible feminist and probably an awful human being.

Everyone on board?

OK.

I definitely have my moments where I’m like, “Man, I’d kill to be built like Kerry Washington” or whoever.

But last night I watched Chicago again (for burlesque research!), and I realized, “Goddamn, I would much rather be built like me than like Super Thin Renée Zellweger any day.”

I sincerely hope the most prominent feature of my chest is never the bones in it. (I can’t even see those bones, I forgot there WERE bones there.)

I could floss with that woman.

I know, I KNOW. I shouldn’t judge another woman. There’s room for all of us (ahem — especially her, she’s basically vapor), and we’re all snowflakes, blah blah, bliddy blah, sisterhood, traveling pants, etc. FINE. I’m an asshole. We’ve established that.

Also, while she’s tiny, I’m sure she does crazy yogalates-ninja-reformer class or something and could kill me with her pinky finger. Plus, she’s a floppity-bajillionaire mega-star who can sing AND dance AND act (I’m told), and I live in a studio apartment and have 45 Facebook followers, so who the hell am I? She gives no fucks what I think, and rightly so.

Now, don’t get it twisted — if you offered a trade of INCOME, I’d be on that shit like white on rice. (Not that she knows what rice is, but you get the idea.) But body-wise? I’m glad I’m me, is the point. Flat ass and all. I’m not a hater — this was a self-esteem epiphany. So there.

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