La Pandemia en Veracruz.

A casi 6 meses del primer caso en la zona conurbada, quiero hacer un alto en el camino y profundizar en la evolución de la pandemia en la ciudad y en el Hospital Español de Veracruz. En el estado de…

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How Can Women Love Themselves In A World Of Fake Everything?

My eyeballs feel gritty, though my nerves are wired from the 20 ounces of coffee I guzzled in a highly ineffective attempt to wake myself up.

I still feel exhausted, but now I’m jittery on top of it.

Why am I so tired? Well, dear world, this Ivy-league educated women found herself wide awake at 3 am, hooked on a reality show she just discovered on Netflix. Selling Sunset.

As the rest of the neighborhood slept quietly around me, my eyeballs were fixated on the bright TV screen, watching women with designer clothes, perfectly pouted (and filler-enhanced) lips, and expensive breasts gossip and toss their platinum blonde hair in front of a filming crew.

“There’s nothing fake about me but my titties!” one of them spat at her co-workers, in a heated argument over who was the most two-faced in the real estate office within which they vied for the most attention and money.

I shoveled popcorn into my mouth as I watched, transfixed and vaguely disgusted with myself over how enthralled I was with this world.

After I fell asleep watching Christine Quinn’s lips grow larger with each passing episode, I dreamt of Beverly Hills mansions and vampires, sex and death. I woke up when a vampire in stilettos began chasing me in my dreams and stumbled bleary-eyed into the bathroom, my head slightly sore from the hours of television the night before.

I looked in the mirror and analyzed my face. I had indentations on my cheek from where my face pressed into the hair ties on my wrist while I slept. The pimple that had emerged the day before stared angrily back at me, larger and bolder than it had been before. The baby hairs that had begun sprouting out of my head this summer stuck out from my hairline in different directions.

My belly was slightly bloated from the irresponsible quantity of popcorn I’d inhaled at 3 am, and the pajamas I purchased from Costco last week looked decidedly rumpled.

Thinking of the gorgeous women on the TV screen the night before, I smirked at myself. The comparison between me and them was pretty comical. Not unlike comparing a Birkin bag to the large beach tote bags my mother would shove paneer sandwiches and…

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