Even if I wasn’t shallow doesn’t mean I would date ugly girls. I always tell the uglies: “I can look past your ugly face to your tits.” The only reason I am so shallow is out of the fear of meeting someone as shallow as me. They WILL notice that one hair out of place on my head and judge me as harshly as a raccoon rapist. They WILL notice the little whitehead on my chin and make sure I feel like I just killed my own family. I just don’t want to go out in this world knowing that there are people as shallow as me and I haven’t made sure every piece of me is as perfect as possible; regardless if perfect for me is still ugly, at least I tried.
The city brings out the shallow in you more than ever. People here are so hyper-attuned to every aspect of you and your sullied wardrobe. Sitting on the subway, I know the girl across from me is looking me up from head to toe. And I know she knows where and what season I got every piece of clothing; she checked. Girls do that, they love clothing shopping so much that even go browsing through men’s clothing. Even if they can’t wear it themselves, they need to know about it, so that they can know what guys are worth procreating with or not. They want to make sure their children will be well-dressed, it is natural selection at work. Who am I kidding about the “from head to toe” reference? Girls, New York girls, especially, look at you from the toe up. That way, by virtue of your footwear, they know whether to waste their valuable time looking all the way up your body. Who wants to waste their time looking at the face of some shoefuck anyway? Get your shoes in order guys.
When you move to New York now, via Ellis Island of course, the process has changed a bit. Of course they still check you for head lice and look up your asshole (for no reason in particular, just like the poopers) but now when you enter you are first given a fauxhawk, then a v-neck t-shirt, a pair of designer torn jeans, some nice leather loafers, and your name is changed to something trendy and German like Diesel or Horst or Greg. I should know, I just moved here, and I ashamed, ASHAMED, to be stepping out looking like I am, clothes from years ago, not up on fashion. I went to SoHo and I think I actually saw men and women weeping, parents were covering their childrens’ eyes so they wouldn’t have to see me, fashionably inept me. I had to leave because a lynch mob was soon forming around me, with flaming Prada handbags and nets made out of stitched-together woolen beanie caps or whatever the fuck those stupid woolen glorified hair-net things are. Take your big ass glasses and give them back to your grandparents, they’re stumbling around the retirement home, knocking over their pinochle games. You sick fucks, you sick hip, fashion forward, too cool for proper fitting clothing monsters. I can’t wait until hipsters actually need their hips replaced, the word will take on an entirely new meaning. Then I hope your grandkids steal your now “vintage” glasses, so that you break your new hips because you can’t see your wheelchair in front of you as you run to the bathroom because your prostates leaking some unrecognizable fluid from your flaccid cock or twat, thats right, your flaccid twat, think about it ladies, that thing will be swinging like a for sale sign on a foreclosed run down rusted trailer home that you once lived in because you were too hip and cool to think a job was something you could do. “But I can’t work there, they won’t let me express my individuality through knitted accessories.”
I’m vain because I’m boring, I’m boring because I’m vain. But at least I look good until you get to know me. Get your tubes tied, or just be too self-conscious to think about having your vagina stretched out and stretch marks all over yourself. White people are done for. Good riddance. Just kidding, I love white people, you genocidal, racist, paranoid fear-mongering hypocrites. That’s funny, I am one, sort of, kind of, I’m a hated white person, but aren’t all groups of white people hated? Sure are, sure are. Bye bye.