It’s been hard to me to admit this, to come to such a devastating realization. To understand the actual truth and magnanimity of this tragic situation. I never thought it would come to this. I never thought I would actually have to come to terms with such a notion. I thought I could live in denial about this matter for the entirety of my immortal life, but I can’t. I must now understand, that I can’t alone kill with just my sharp looks. It’s hard, I know. Not only for you all, but especially for me. Please, pray for me in this difficult time. I need all the support I can get.
So now, I must learn how to handle a weapon.
I love being dramatic, honestly. It gets me even more attention than usual, which is obviously saying something. It’s just so great, to make people pity you and actually care about you. Because then it’s so much easier to make them love you. And that’s the goal, duh. But anyways, I can’t rely on my looks to kill anymore. Fucked up, I know. It’s so inconsiderate. I should not have to do this laborious training, but I fucking have to or I’m apparently going to die, if that’s even possible, which I’m super sure that it isn’t. People like me don’t just die, sweetie. It’s called being an icon.
Swords? Too heavy. Too much labor involved. I’m not doing that. Beautiful people shouldn’t have to do that. So I won’t be. Tridents and spears are just too big. They’ll probably end up obscuring my face, and that’s just not acceptable. Knives, though. That’s a concept which I do very much approve of. They don’t weigh much, and they complement my bone structure. So, as though I own the place (which I do), I strut over to the knives station and pick one up. It’s a small, thin knife, with a curled blade. I step in front of a mirror, holding the knife up to my throat and curling my lip. Fuck, I look so hot with this knife. I’m genuinely fucked up.
I have to start off by learning basic hand-to-hand moves, and then equipping myself with knives. Thanks to my beautiful figure, and slightly muscularly defined body, I have excellent coordination and agility, so I can move around fluidly. All a bitch has to be able to do is dodge some shit, block some shit, and strike. Cute. Fun. I shouldn’t have to do physical activity. Fucked up.
“I feel like I could just cut bitches with my jawline,” I say out loud to nobody in particular. Nobody notices or replies. Fucking rude that there isn’t 24/7 paparazzi coverage on me but whatever. I guess my private training session, interview, and arena overage will suffice and make up for this disparity.
I continue to practice because this fucking trainer won’t let me go until I’ve mastered all this dumbass shit he’s making me learn. Sweating is not cute. I should not even have one bead of sweat glistening on my godly flesh. It’s disgusting.
Once I perfect what I’m being taught, which doesn’t take too long, because it isn’t hard for perfection to achieve perfection in another form, I have to throw the fucking knives. What the fuck? This shit is actually so extra. I need a nap.
It’s extremely offensive when the knives won’t actually stick in the goddamn target at first. But once I start to picture the targets as the flies vying for my rightly earned spotlight, they begin to actually pierce the foam. Picturing me as the target and the knife in my hand as roses also helps.
I continue to train with the knives, seeing my attention whore competitors dead, and myself being showered with roses and praise. It’s beautiful, honestly. I’m tearing up. Just kidding, a bitch doesn’t cry. That shit is not good for my skin.
