Brought to You by Milton-Bradley

I don’t play the I-hate-myself game. I much prefer Apples to Apples.
Don’t pretend like you haven’t played the IHM game. You have.
That time you fell in front of a bunch of people?
Remember when you’re best friend got the guy?
How about when your grandma called you pudgy and laughed?

Yup, you’ve played. You’re basically the star quarter back of this game some days.

It started so innocently. Back when you were little and not quite self aware. Then BOOM, you see it. The curly hair. Or the extra adipose tissue. The extra 6 inches of height. Or the slightly wider nose. Being animals who wear pants, we need to assimilate for our own safety or the pack will turn on us.
It takes another few decades at least to realize that people won’t murder you for not looking like a replica. Sometimes, there are people who never realize it.

How did I stop playing? Simple. I have too many reasons to hate myself.

I’m a bi-racial overweight women with psoriasis who’s father doesn’t love her (you think I’m kidding? Because he told me so last year).

See? It’s really hard to pick one reason to be miserable. So I threw down my cards in a huff and went to play somewhere else. Fuck this game.


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