Toss it over the edge.

She is pretty in that way—the way that makes you question. The way that makes you envy.

The way that makes your gut wrench.

Her features beg some type of comparison. You find yourself complementing your intelligence like never before, managing complex mental scams to fill in the gaps, the cuts. The cuts you don’t measure up.

You examine. You analyze her aspect, her every detail, from the lines on her forehead to the slope of her shoulders.

Brace for impact.

Criticism is overwhelming. You criticize the width of the bridge of your nose, the pockets of lard snuck on your thighs. Fat caked over limp muscle. Your fingernails, bitten, torn to the quick. Those chalky rings of orbit mistaken for black eyes.

Stare yourself down.

You will wither. You will writhe.

Characterized by a surly slouch and smoker’s cough, you will choke down another. Click and drag.

You’ve got your comfort. You’ve got your fix.

She’s got her pretty.

Convince yourself of that.

Click and drag.

Then argue with yourself over something less demeaning.