Dear Georgina

Dear Georgina,

I don't like you. I don't like you at all.

In fact, it's safe to say that I hate you. And to be honest with you, I don't really know why.

I just know that I hated you since you co-hosted the Allison Iraheta concert a few years back, and your male partners were all wacky and fun, and you were trying to hard to maintain balance to the pre-concert riffing session.

Well, actually, you ended up sounding completely bored and sleepy and just, well, not fun. Oh, by the way, you went, or something like it, this event is brought to you by... and without any flair at all. You were just this killjoy of a host with dead eyes and pale skin and no other redeeming features.

And it's a shame, really, because you were, well, just someone before that fateful day. I know you've been doing modelling for years, and I've seen you in print ads then, and I've seen you in billboards then, and I just move on. You're just one of those many pretty faces, although back then - I was still in college - you weren't as pretty as Kelly, that other girl whose face is all over the billboards.

I'm sure you know Kelly, right? Say hi to her for me, will you?

Anyway, since then, I just... I don't know. I just hated you. I get annoyed when I see your face on television. I avert my eyes when I see your face on billboards. I have the urge to rip off pages with your face, but then again, I respect print media far too much. I saw this article about you doing a photo shoot in blackface and I was hoping someone would call you out for being racist. I mean, you may say it's you telling girls what real beauty is, but you can always do it by not applying make-up, right? Right, you'll be pale, right. How about altering your facial structure?

In fact, I don't really see what's beautiful about you. Is it your eyes? Your eyes are dead, Georgina. They don't say anything, even if you're smiling. Is it your face? I've seen faces like yours everywhere. I've had prettier crushes. Is it your legs? (Is that grammatically correct?) Your legs are nothing, Georgina. Well, I don't really see your legs a lot, so I'll give you that... or no, I won't. Your legs are nothing.

I remember a friend of mine somehow managing to take a photo with you, and all of the guys commenting were, like, "I hate you," referring to my friend, of course. I wanted to join in and say the same thing. Yes, Georgina, in case you don't get it yet, I hate you.

I hate you, Georgina. I could write two thousand words on why I hate you. But I have yet to go to a magazine store, and buy every back issue with a pictorial of you in it, and scan them all, and upload them all, and painstakingly prove why you're not beautiful and why I hate you. But, you know, I'm not as rich as you. And you try to tell people what real beauty is when you continue to perpetuate that idea of beauty you want to kill. And I just hate you. I don't really know why. I don't want to know why. But I hate you.

You know what my idea of hell is, Georgina?

This is.

My idea of hell, Georgina, is of you staring at me, not giving me a chance to discern why I hate you so much.

And no, I did not edit this. This is real. I cringe whenever I pass by that road. And also I wanted to take a photo of it on a good day. I took this months ago. It's been sitting on my phone all this time. In fact, the billboards have been taken down. (And so is a third, I think.) See? Dead eyes. As dead as you were on that concert. You smug dead model, you.

I frigging hate you. And I always will.

Your hater always hating,

And your responses...

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