What is perfection? Is it the cover of a magazine, the girl so happy to finally have made it? What has she made, though? Everything is fake about her, from her lips to her breasts to her smile. Her body is the sacrifice she paid to make money, her body is the receipt. Everything from the meal she just threw up to the clothes she models but will never own. The "perfect" flat abs she almost killed herself to get, the lips she injected to get so thick and full. The legs she worked so hard to get. In the end, she killed herself to get where she is. Nothing is the original, the little girl her parents knew and loved self-destructed, a victim of its own success. An industry whore that learns little tips, such as bending a little more during the photo shoot will get you the cover. You have to look natural, they told her. As natural as a girl in a beautiful outfit with a fake smile plastered on her collagen lips can get. Look so natural that other girls will want to replace you while you try to loose those two pounds. Well, this is the end of that 'perfect' cover girl. Here, where pills scatter across the floor, vomit splashes against the walls and sinks, a look of shock mixed with that final content visage plastered on her face. Every pill from fat burners to sleeping pills, energy capsules to ecstasy. This is the end of the industry whore, the one that became the photographer's "perfect" sketch. The one that, as I found her, became the tragedy author's masterpiece. Now, on the floor, the implants and injections, lifts and tucks mean nothing. This is truly perfection in its finest.