Partly Cloudy, 64°
I know you don’t understand what it’s like to constantly be the hottest, most well-liked person in the room, but trust me, it’s a struggle. Sure, everyone is staring at my bronzed, toned legs that go on for miles and commenting on the way my cheekbones look like they were carved out of marble, but you know what they never talk about? My brain.
I can’t count the amount of times I get stared at with looks of incredulity when I get a 97% on an orgo exam or drop the craziest, most sophisticated analysis of Kafka’s Metamorphosis. “Wow,” they all say, “I didn’t know you were smart.” Of course you didn’t. You’ve been so blinded by my bodacious bod that you couldn’t see the sheer intellectual force lying beneath these piercing blue eyes.
Even my friends can’t seem to grasp that the 5’10” blonde-haired goddess they worship is literally Mensa material. Whenever I’m with them, it’s just a constant deluge of “everyone loves you,” “you’re literally perfect,” “I wish I were you.” Oh, really? You wish you had to pretend you didn’t solve Schrodinger’s multiparticle equation just so others could feel less shitty for their mediocre looks and inferior IQ?
Dating is even worse. I’m so tired of having to dumb myself down so the Average Joe can feel like a Beautiful Beau. The moment they find out that Goldman Sachs and J.P. Morgan are both fighting to land me post-grad and that I’m actually not wearing makeup and this is all natural, they run away. God forbid a woman has hobbies alongside her symmetrical face.
So next time you wanna reduce me to my killer looks, think again. It’s hard to be a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model and the youngest ever Pulitzer Prize winner, but hey. Someone’s gotta do it.
