Insta-shame

I zoom in as much as possible into her Facebook selfie. I throughly examine the lack of edges on her ridiculous, bulging, overly-inflated lips. Grotesquely unnatural. But men don’t care. His dickhead probably loves that her mouth is like a huge puffy glossy vagina. 

I hate in disbelief. Starring. Typical Hollywood, trying-to-be-famous, not-just-Instagram-famous, Los Angeles narcissist. She’s friends with like-bodied, social media popular, big-breasted “curvy girls”, as well as unthought of -Z list celebrities. 

She’s whack. I say it with jealousy but also some validity. I stalked them long enough to see he left her too. My heart grinned. But when I realized he wasn’t coming back to me either, I went for my sweats to sit, eat, and taste my Humble Pie.

Although I don’t think they’re together, I can’t help but to tap to her profiles sometimes. It’s like I love to feel insecure about myself. Her bright red fake hair, looking pretty dirty and stringy; I seek out how her flaws are worse than mine. Sigh. They’re probably not. And if he were going to go back to someone, even for just some ass, he’d probably hit up her porn-star looking self. 

It can’t be healthy to dwell in these thoughts.. Or actions. I just prolong my journey to self-validation. I know I’m pretty awesome. I just wish I wouldn’t forget so often.

I so desperately don’t want to be alone.. I so desperately want to learn and know God’s love so I stop seeking it in other people.

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