I have faced numerous trials and tribulations on the road to becoming the delicious b**ch I am proud to call myself today. The most trying of these was learning to simply be comfortable in my own skin. This is a venture that every person must face. Im afraid to say that few of us succeed in it.

BW Ballerina In order to accomplish this state of mind, I simply drilled myself for a series of about four years (also known as high school) that I was a gorgeous, powerful, sexy bitch. Everyday, turning the concept over and again in my mind, unconsciously, intrinsically. Quite honestly, it worked like a charm. I simply know it now. I am a sexy bitch. Why? Because I said so. If I truly believe something, what else matters? How can others intimidate, control, and mold me into something I have no desire to be if I dont let them? Some, including my older sister, may call this arrogance. I call it empowerment.

Its truly astonishing, all of this bull we believe we have to go through simply to obtain a false sense of security about ourselves. We toil, fight and labor for the majority of our lives in order to aspire to an image that was fabricated in a boardroom by a team that was most probably comprised of fat, rich white men.

We werent born hating ourselves- we were taught.

We were taught so that the large group of rich, fat, white men could sell every conceivable potion, mousse, spray, cream, makeup, wax, exercise machine, soap, elixir, diet paraphernalia, books, videos, hair plugs, and cosmetic surgery that would inspire us to dish out just a little more dough for the corporate money machine. Its just plain silly.

When you were a toddler, did you wobble your little legs over to the nearest mirror every time you felt a wisp of hair go astray? When you were five, did you worry about how the way you dressed might send the wrong message?' When you were nine, did you shave, pluck, primp, apply and all the other crap we mindlessly do whenever the opposite sex is in sight? F**k no.

I remember running out of the house as a kid in hot pink bikeshorts and a polyester shirt, completing the ensemble with a bathingsuit beneath (it was the eighties). Through various venues we discovered as children, and are exposed to increasingly as adults, we are constantly bombarded with images of creepy, vacant-eyed, expressionless, puffed-up, slimmed-down, airbrushed plastic women that apparently represent the woman we should all aspire to. Please. Give me a smile line, a healthy glow, a potbelly, a pulse!

I have always cherished everything my mother has given me, including my celluliteespecially my cellulite! I truly pity those models, actresses, and performers who feel they must torture themselves simply to find work. The truly sad thing is maybe they do. They will never know the glorious satisfaction of feeling simply and utterly perfect. Of loving every delicious womanly curve, dip, and dimple that was given them by their mamas, grandmamas, and great-grandmamas.

Recently, my best friend of eleven years was swallowed into this world of brittle, manufactured beauty. It started when she developed a crush on an actor that became something of an unhealthy obsession. The really unfortunate thing about falling for someone youve never met is that you can create the perfect man/woman and simply apply their pretty face on the package. As a result, her self-esteem plummeted (as apparently impossibly pretty pirates can do to a girl). It broke my heart to see her so damn unhappy for such a damn stupid reason.

There is no reason not to love yourself. None! Forget what the men in the boardroom say, or what their perfectly sculpted puppets tell you. Put the facial cream/diet drink/makeup product down and start living your life!

Well, back to my friend. I felt that the only way to remedy her condition was to surround her with real women, blindingly gorgeous and strong women of every shape, size, and color- the true goddesses of the millennium. (Coincidently, many of whom happen to be close friends of mine. But search for them yourselves- they're everywhere!) I took her by the hand and immersed her into a world that was empowering, delightful, and could never by broken by the thin pictures of pretty manufactured boys and girls.

Its a painful and rather disgusting fact that no matter what I say, do, or accomplish, some men will still only measure myself and other women by what we mean to their dicks. Even with my closest guy pals, it took them days, weeks, months to see past the breasts, the hips, the legs and everything else that reminds them that I am nothing but an object relative to their dicks. Now Im no longer a woman to them. They dont even seem to notice that anymore. Im simply Jenny. I dig the f**k out of that!

After coming to terms with the reviling men mentioned above (also known as dicks) my answer to them is simply this: I dont give a damn what they think! I have no wish to appeal to those a**holes. Our society is evolving (though Ill probably never see it in my lifetime). They will become extinct and die out, just like every other glitch in evolutionary history.

What people need to do now is to put down the magazine and turn off the TV, step outside and enjoy life. Look around in the real world and you won't see the perfect models walking around avoiding strong gusts of wind.

If youre looking for Neverland, a place where the pressures of being an adult are not constantly weighing you down, look out your window, NOT in the tube.

Step outside, breathe in the air that the fat white men in the boardroom have yet to successfully capitalize upon, and spread the love my sistas, my fellow goddesses of the millennium.