Am I pretty? My mother would argue that yes, indeed, I was pretty, in fact I was beautiful. She would tell me not to pay attention to society’s view on the world, and to love myself for who I was. She would tell me to wear what I want and be who I am, and don’t worry about pleasing others.

Am I pretty? The boys in my school would argue no. They would tell me to drop the two pounds of baby fat I still clutch onto. They would tell me to wear lower shirts and tighter bottoms. They would tell me to be more like a Barbie Doll. They would tell me to lose my personality and submit myself to the nostalgic views of society.

Am I pretty? The thousands of strangers silently judging me would probably argue no. They would most likely tell me that I was not up on a billboard and not starring in a commercial, so that must mean I wasn’t pretty. They would compare me to faces plastered on walls and perfected on TV and would pronounce me “un-beautiful.”

Am I pretty? I don’t know anymore. Are my blue eyes too far apart? Is my blonde hair too wavy? Should I curl it? Should I work out more? Have I committed the deathly sin of being fat? I no longer know who I am or where I belong in this world…this world that’s poisoned by brainless presumptions. I just don’t think I belong in a world filled with plastic stick thin girls clutching four thousand dollar bags. Do you belong here?