Who is the perfect woman?

The perfect woman has Jessica Alba’s legs, Jessica Biel’s butt, and Jessica Simpson’s boobs. When the perfect woman runs, she never jiggles in any way other than invitingly. When she smiles, it invites the same from everyone around her. When she laughs, the room laughs with her. It’s enough to make someone embark on a murderous spree. Someone less balanced than myself, of course.

The perfect woman has Angelina Jolie’s incredible eyes, Lucy Liu’s flowing Charlie’s Angels hair, and Britney Spears’ perfect little pre-collagen treated bow of a mouth. Her skin is flawless, and has probably never even dreamed of sprouting anything as unsightly as pimples or cellulite. She wears the latest fashions as easily as a runway model, and she can do cartwheels in four-inch stilettos. It’s a pretty neat trick, actually, especially as she’d downed several vodka martinis prior to this athletically improbable demonstration.

The perfect woman should have been fictional, relegated to the realm of wet dreams and men’s magazine covers. She should run wild and free in some special beautiful person’s theme park, where visitors can pay twenty-five dollars to observe the perfect woman in her natural habitat and dream of owning one of their very own. Or maybe she should be kept locked away instead, like some exotic pet, and only shown to the public on rare occasions so as to keep the pitiably normal women from clogging up plastic surgery offices across the land. It’s a tough choice.

At any rate, she should be wreaking her special brand of havoc anywhere other than twenty feet away from me. But that comes part and parcel when your best friend is as in demand as she is. People want to be near her, as if they’ll soak up a little bit of her brilliance through mere proximity. Everyone wants a piece of her. Men stare, and so do some of the women.

Her hair is perfect, her makeup flawless. Her dress is designer, and fits her like a second skin. Her smile is brilliant.

Her eyes are empty.