This isn't a romance. It's anything *but* a romance. This is to romance as Ramen is to caviar. *But* since it is a rather...dark evaluation of romance and love in general, I considered it semi-logical to place it in the romance genre. Reviews (of any kind) are much appreciated.

"I mean, look at me. I'm ninety pounds and I have no boobs."
*Ninety pounds? There's about three of you in me...*
"Heather, pretty isn't everything." Put in Rebecca.
"No, but it's a lot! And besides, you should talk!" You're a Double-D cup and you've got a boyfriend!"
"As dippy as it sounds, Noah likes me for me."
"But still! You can't deny that you're pretty."
"You'll get a boyfriend. Right, Lynn?" I nodded fervently, although I agreed with Heather.
At the tender age of fifteen, I had already come to a rather melodramatic conclusion of love: As nothing more than a synonym for lust. Lust, of course, is dealt out conditionally on basis of beauty. Beauty is, of course, dealt out conditionally on basis of the bathroom scale. So, what it all comes down to is this: food or love?
Now, in the conventional mythology of the chick flick or the Disney movie, this is when the male I wish would disprove my theory would come in. Later tonight, after seeing him entrust his heart to someone else, I would resolve to shed the pounds. The next day, I would start my diet and workout regime. Then the annoyingly optimistic mentor who sees me as a potential convert to perkiness would show up. Somewhere between the middle and the end of the movie, the male in question (who wouldn't have given acknowledgement in any way, shape, or form that he knew of my existence at the start) would realize how hot I look in low-rise jeans and then suddenly go "Oh! Now that I see how *hot* you look in those low-rise jeans, I see how beautiful you were in the first place!"
And that is where any chance of a sickeningly sugary romance (And that chance makes winning the lottery seem up there with the chance that I'll have to breathe in the next five minutes) is blown. I'm not beautiful. On the outside I am a massive blob that takes up too much space. On the inside, as if this conclusion isn't painfully obvious, I'm jaded and bitter and cynical.
And you're probably sick of my damn melodrama. Or, if you're more charitable, you're flipping through your Rolodex searching for a therapist. "Surely someone with a degree in psychology can fix what's wrong with this poor, poor soul!" I already told you what's wrong with me. I'm jaded and bitter and cynical. And by the time I realized it, it was too late to fix it.
Right about now, I'm assuming that the more charitable among you are becoming overwhelmed with sympathy. Someday I'll realize how wrong and twisted this logic is. Now I hate to say this and piss of the few people that have gotten this far, but this is a no-hold-barred, soul-baring expose, is it not?
Love is a cheap media-induced hallucination. It takes some people decades or a broken heart to come down off it. I can say from experience that coming down isn't painless, and that there is no happy ending.
So, if you've read this far and have begun to seriously consider my theory, please stop reading this and go fill yourself with all the media that induces the hallucination of love. I may be jaded and bitter and cynical, but I don't have the heart to nudge anyone else in that direction.
I'm a coward, really. Cowardly and lazy and stubborn. I'm too damn lazy to try and lose the weight and gain beauty, the offbeat currency used to buy love. And I'm too damn cowardly to try and disprove my theory. I'd rather search for the perfect candy bar than the perfect mate. And I'm too damn stubborn to abandon my theory and let myself gain the facade of love.

And so, the question of food or love has long been resolved for me.