Hollywood Myth Machine

I am flawless. My skin radiates the most perfect shade of saccharine pink and my bright blond coif of bouncing, spiraling curls frames the womanly contours of my face. I am iconic. And you are hypnotized by my 25 pairs of sparkling, turquoise eyes. Red lips brazenly curled, I boast my megawatt Hollywood smile. I am loved; I am hated. The likeness you see, You don’t know, and never will: A face plastered by a plastic mask, glowing garishly in the lonely darkness. What you see is generated by the Hollywood myth machine. Iam the myth, reduced, condensed, and compacted for mass consumption.