To the beautiful, multi-talented one. Dark hair, pale skin, lips made for verbal evisceration. How can you just look like that? Do you know what I look like when I go to work? I look like shit. You don’t even have to consider it, do you, the way that clothes might fall on you, the way your hair will move in the wind. Every fucking day, I have to consider how best I can conceal myself. And your beauty falls off you in spades. I despise you for it. But I love you for it. And you don’t even know my name.
To the tall, invaluable one. Rosy cheeks like you’re out of some fucking Christmas cartoon special. Hair gel always perfect and sweet-smelling. Plaid and khakis and your $300 stethoscope. You are more intelligent than I will ever be. You have accomplished more in your life than I can even comprehend. Sad little poor girl trying to get into vet school, and you can spout off pharmacology and surgical procedures while you’re taking a dump. You have no idea how much I envy you.
To the wasteful, successful glutton. Shiny head and shiny toys along with it. If you sold every single one of your “accidental extra purchases,” you could probably afford sustenance for an entire state. “Oh, it’s Tuesday. Target’s New Release day. Better buy something. But wait, I think I own that already, don’t I? Oh well. I’ll keep that one in the plastic wrap. It’s a collectible, you know.” I HATE that you can go to a world where I wish I truly did exist. I hate that you can fly without feeling like you’re in a coffin. I hate that you can afford to be generous, and that you can give people what they want for holidays or random days because I have never and will never make as much as you do.
To the sultry-eyed, smoky-voiced one. So honest and well-spoken. Flexible in body but not in spirit. You warn against comparing yourself to other people, but it’s like Da Vinci pointing at your stick figure drawing and saying, “That’s so cute.” Every camera loves you, every headphone loves you. You tweet fortune-cookie adages, and when I look at them, I click on the heart, but there’s an emptiness in my chest where I tried to hollow out the jealousy.