There’s no need to fret and get upset. All I said was “You’re almost skinny enough to be a model”. I meant it as a compliment. It’s true – you are almost skinny enough to be a model. There’s nothing wrong with that. There’s no need to get upset about it.
Try to remember the positive – like the time you were fat and repulsive and you decided to do something about it. And you did. You lost a lot of unnecessary weight and you should be proud of what you’ve achieved and not upset about it. Of course, going on a diet like you did, can’t do anything about looks. That’s not my responsibility. Nor yours, to be frank. You can’t improve the face God gave you without a great deal of expense. Yet, you are almost pretty enough to be a model.
But being overweight is something you can do something about, and you did. Although all your old clothes no longer fit, and you look like a rag doll, that’s no reason to spend most of your time in tears, blubbering away like some God-forsaken lamb dressed as mutton. If you could perhaps adapt your clothes a bit I would say that you would almost be dressed well enough to be a model.
So, to sum up: you are almost skinny enough to be a model, you are almost pretty enough to be a model, and you would almost be dressed well enough to be a model to advertise the can of beans on our supermarket brochure. But you don’t quite tip the scales.
Stella had the most beautiful hair. Her hair was the envy of everyone. All who saw it couldn’t help but gush with wonder and admiration. It was almost as if Stella was a mutation. Her hair was probably why the artist had asked Stella if she would mind posing for a painting.
“Just look up to the ceiling for a minute if you would,” asked the painter.
“Turn your head slightly to the right,” asked the painter.
“Gently frisk your hair to the left. Just a little! Perfect!” said the artist.
“All done,” said the artist. Pablo Picasso put down his brushes.
Stella had the most beautiful hair. It was just a shame she had only one eye and in the middle of her forehead, three ears, and a nose that pointed in two directions at once.
Sophia was an aspiring model. Already she had appeared in a glossy advertisement that was posted in everyone’s mail. She was wearing a brushed cotton dressing gown. Sooo sexy. Her mother had cut out the advert and put it in a scrapbook.
And now the rock star was in town. Sophia was in the foyer of his very hotel. Here he comes! There were other women “hanging around”. Sophia struck up a pose. Kind of casual. Kind of sensual. A liaison with the rock star would enhance her career.
And sure enough. A message came to Sophia: Would she like to spend some time with the rock star in his room?
Fourteen hours later, Sophia reappeared. “I’m so hungry,” she gushed. “Just sooo hungry. The rock star made love to me six times.”
The waiting Press flashed their cameras. Sophia was famous! The modelling jobs couldn’t help but come in now. In fact, it was front page stuff.
Later that day the rock star issued a press statement:
“We didn’t make love; we had sex. And if memory serves me right, it was eight times not six.”