In a “post-mortem” review today, I started going on and on about a bruised ego, and a low self-esteem.

Then, the more I say, the more I feel the urge to burst out crying.

I realise my self-esteem has officially hit rock-bottom.

And I might not recover, after all.

And I am angsty. And I am dulan. And I ain’t even PMS at all.

I feel fat, even though I know I ain’t.

I feel unattractive.

I feel… my nehs are too small.

I feel… my stretch marks are glaringly obvious and staring back at me.

I feel my cellulite is a ghastly sight.

I feel… my doctor might not have sew me tight enough. Ha. Ha. Ha.

Not funny.

I feel I need botox so I don’t look like your 48 year-old auntie.

I feel… I might need to take a leaf out of plastic dong’s book and spend on maintainence or some sort.

Seriously, to those who think I think I am gorgeous…. that must be the biggest joke on planet earth.

I think the naked sight of me can turn off hot-blooded virgin boys.

Wait a minute, not I think.

It’s a fact.