I've often dreamt about being that girl, the perfect model, the exact formula others I loved seemed to project onto me. If it were up to me. I would have let them design me this way willingly, (re) shaping my core, claying my intentions, even programming my manners. Set everything into stone perfectly. If I could rewrite my own story, I'd wake up fertile, optimal, not just malleable but consumable, a smooth piece of hard candy sliding pleasantly on the tongue. I would have become exactly what they wished for, for it's within the space of fulfilled desires that love lasts and surely never dies. If one could only perform the perfect daughter, friend, and girlfriend, remaining this glowing object of desire for eternity. Imagine it, if you will. A fresh, young body-the most seductive image of them all, the figure forever praised; oh, what a pleasurably yet painful place to exist in. The moment one starts to grieve the idea of optimality, of performing perfectly one starts seeing multiple illusions drift away with the tide, never to be seen again. All of these lies and constraints: the lie of consistency, the impossibility of eternity, the treacherous limits of the body.