I’m not a size 2. My stomach isn’t as flat as a washboard when I sit down. I enjoy an occasional slice of pizza. I’m already well-aware that I am not destined to model, or marry a hot rockstar, or be the face of some cosmetic line. But full disclosure: I am not one who doesn’t know the difference between Topshop and Top Cat, and I don’t cause passersby to shriek in horror as I walk past their gaze.

As I stared at my laptop with an empty Cheez-It bag in front of me, an article from Harper’s Bazaar was conveniently, or perhaps inconveniently, brought to my attention by a friend. It read, “If you're bummed about waiting a full year for the next Victoria's Secret Fashion Show, today's news is sure to lift your spirits.” 

Wow, Harper’s Bazaar, you really speak to me, don’t you? I am a 19-year-old, stressed out college freshman who gets bummed out by bad grades, disappointment, and not knowing what I want to do with my life. But I will never be bummed about having to wait a full year (gasp!) to see the entrancing, immortal, glamazon Victoria’s Secret models grace the catwalk in nipple covers and bathing suits made of floss. No thanks, I’ll pass.

I would hereby like to thank the Victoria’s Secret Angels for reminding me that looks are what people covet the most, and that your tanned and toned bodies (kudos to that California girl Katy Perry) are what set the societal standard for beauty and sex symbolism. Thank you for reminding me that I, and 99 percent of other girls like me, will never touch those standards. While you bronze your chests with self-tanner and wear push-up bras, I wrap my chest in thick scarves to inform the world that I’m more than just a body -- the exact antithesis to the messaging which these fashion shows promote.

Maybe I’m just cynical, or maybe I’m just jealous. But what I do know is that I refuse to aspire to women who, with a little luck and a lot of starvation, succeed in superficiality. See, angels aren’t real, and I choose to watch real women do real things. Sorry if that’s a “bummer.”