This is about the self-mutilating circus we have painted ourselves clowns in.
   
About women who will prowl 30 stores in 6 malls to find the right cocktail dress, but haven't a clue where to find fulfillment or how wear joy, wandering through life shackled to a shopping bag, beneath those 2 pretty syllables.

This, this is about my own some-day daughter. When you approach me, already stung-stayed with insecurity, begging,

“Mom, will I be pretty? Will I be pretty?”

I will wipe that question from your mouth like cheap lipstick and answer,

“No! The word pretty is unworthy of everything you will be, and no child of mine will be contained in five letters. “You will be pretty intelligent, pretty creative, pretty amazing. But you, will never be merely 'pretty'.”