I have been vain my entire life.

I always believed I was hideously ugly, when I was a kid. Somehow that translated to me being totally fixated on looks as an adult. When I got fat, I got interested in fashion. I thought that would distract the world from the spectacle of my face combined with my unfortunately assertive belly, and have I mentioned I’m a wee bit self centered?

Somehow what cured me was meeting him.

Don’t get me wrong. I was horrendously disappointed that G-D brought him into my life after I was fat and not before.

But still. In spite of all my vanity. He managed to teach me that there is much more to loving someone than how well they do or do not fulfill social standards of beauty.

I sat down next to him. Finally got up the courage. I stared at this skinny, nerdy guy with big ears and for a moment, I’ll admit, I was confused. I’d been fantasizing about him for the past three days and okay, sure, fucking Disney and Hollywood teen dramas had taught me to expect, well, something else. The Hulk in ripped jeans. Somebody out of a superhero movie. Not someone who looked quite so, well, normal.

And then he said something, or moved, or breathed, I can’t remember. He did something, and was himself. He did something, and I got that weak-in-the-knees feeling. That once in a lifetime, want to jump your bones and only yours for the rest of my life, Marry you today if you asked me feeling.

I know, I know. Lust is not love. I know what you’re gonna say. But I’m demisexual. I only get turned on if I care an awful lot about someone. And compared to this, I don’t think I’ve ever been turned on before. Ever.

And I’ve never looked back, and I’ve never not been sure of what I felt. Do you know why?

Because love doesn’t give a shit about your bald spots or your blackheads. It’s possible that love doesn’t even give a shit about your beer belly or your giant freaking hottentot we are such a freaking racist society breasts, though the jury’s out on that one. Mostly? Love thinks all your vanity is really freaking dumb.

I still think he’d love me more if I looked more like his Israeli model crush. He still thinks I’d find him more attractive if he never said silly things or got sick to his stomach. He’s an idiot, sometimes, but then again, aren’t we all?

He thinks if he had a bigger dick I’d want to fuck him more, but I almost crawled in his lap at least 15 times already. And I can’t think of anything in my life I have ever cared about less than how big his dick is.

I still think he would want to date me more if I had a smaller stomach, but obviously that is an entirely different thing. Er.

Bottom line. Someday maybe you will be lucky enough to fall in love with the love of your life. And if you do, I hope you will not be too afraid of your own imperfections to fight for it.

Writes all the things. Photographs the light. Smiles at odd moments. Reads in the shower. Sings to the trees. Hopes a lot.

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