I see my value only in the way I look. I am beautiful but only when people tell me am. Beautiful not because I believe it but only because I am told it. Beauty rather than intelligence and humor is what I desperately grasp onto. Yes, I may be curvier than other girls but what does that matter when I have a pretty face?

Makeup is my shield, my defense mechanism. It is the mask I don to cover the pain of a childhood marked with being called fat and wondering why the same people who always told my sister how pretty she was never told me the same. Time has shaped us and I came out on top (or so I am told) and secretly, I feel victorious. Awful, I know. Until the age of 15, aside from my mom, nobody ever told me I was cute or pretty or beautiful. The first one who did ended up raping me. Take a few minutes to figure that one out. Makeup hides the insecurities that I hold. Ebony eyeliner, red lips and four inch heels give the illusion that I have enough self- confidence to make Tony Robbins' head spin.

The thought of aging makes me stomach churn... Knowing that I only have about 10 years of shelf life before men start looking for younger and fresher meat. How disgusting is that? I realize how shallow I sound and honestly it sickens me. But for all my talk, I'm scared. I'm scared of spending my life alone. Of not meeting my Cary Grant before my expiration date. I'm scared of becoming one of the women who come into my work and while doing their makeup, I tell them how fabulous they look after they've had Restylane and all sorts of other shit shot up into their face in their desperate attempts to find a man well into their 40's and 50's. Please God, don't let me end up like that. Let me be content with the way I am now and the way I will be in 15 years, 25 years and beyond.