I have grappled with understanding the precise nature of my existence for some time and, while this has led to existential despair on more than one occasion, the mental anguish my philosophical musings have caused me is nothing compared to the turmoil I feel right now. I don’t know how much longer I can cope with not being Nicole Scherzinger.
I actually cannot comprehend what God was thinking of when He put me inside this pasty, five foot body that, alright, is perfectly proportioned, thanks for that – but that moves awkwardly, is prone to acne and that almost no hot strangers want to touch, when He knew how to make a caramel coloured, gazelle limbed one that moves gracefully and is so desirable that all humans have to physically restrain themselves from licking the TV screen whenever it appears.
I can only conclude that God is insane, or that He doesn’t, in fact, love me, like the Bible promised He would. Or else I can vainly hope that He’s got something fabulous up His sleeve that He’s waiting to surprise me with later. In which case I might be willing to forgive Him, so long as He hurries the fuck up in delivering His gift, and makes sure He remembers to include the receipt.
Nicole Scherzinger is not so much a reason to be single as an explanation for why so many of us still are. Remember back in 2005, when she sang, ‘don’t cha wish your girlfriend was hot like me’ and we all went, ‘whatever, babes – my boyfriend loves me just like this’? Well, I am ruing that day now because I finally realise, being eight years older and having thus got eight years wiser to the ways of men, that yes all the potential boyfriends do wish I was hot like Nicole.
They wish you were too. Unless you happen to be my friend Marie, or Nicole herself. In which case – run along. This does not concern the beautiful people. I am certain you can find something better to occupy your time. If I were you, that something would involve a mirror.
I am fairly sure that if I was hot like Nicole or Marie I would be asleep in a post-coital embrace right now, if I wanted to be. Rather than tapping at a keyboard and wondering why all the men I want to have sex with keep getting together with toothy, well-behaved brunettes, emigrating to the other side of the world and failing to reply to my text messages.
I’m going to ignore the fact that, in reality, I know (because I read the celebrity pages of the internet) Nicole is suffering from a severe heartbreak caused by the end of her relationship with that guy who drives fast cars. It does not fit with my current world view to acknowledge that none of us get out unbroken, no matter how closely our doe eyes resemble chocolate whirlpools or how much our skin tastes like salted caramel. I want to buy into the dominant cultural belief that promises I can have love and fame and money and sex, loads of it, every night if I have the energy, should I only be beautiful enough. It is a very straightforward worldview that means I don’t have to look at my own behaviour too closely, or make moral judgements about other peoples’. I can just work hard and save for an operation that will chisel cheekbones into my face. And then I can have all the boyfriends, if I want them. Because I’ll be hot like Nicole.
PS: You may or may not have heard that, last week, I won the Best Sex and Relationships category at the Cosmo Blog Awards. Get in! I love winning stuff, so thanks if you voted. I am officially an award-winning blogger now – which means you are obliged to post a link to this site on your Facebook page, and to email all your friends about how funny and fabulous I am. And if any of them are charismatic, single, solvent, stable men who know how to use an apostrophe (I’m not that fussed about any of the last three of those criteria, if I’m honest) then you might also want to give them my number.