Listen, if I’m on a reality TV show where the main premise is hiding behind a wall, there is no fucking way I’m comparing myself to Megan Fox. My Love Is Blind strategy is foolproof: I’m telling everyone I’m the ugliest bitch they’ve ever seen. If these producers want to prove that love is truly blind, I’m your girl.
Now, hear me out. Describing myself as a modern-day Frankenstein removes all possibility that they’d be disappointed in how I actually look. The goal is to lower expectations so severely that my fiancé would weep with relief when he sees me for the first time.
Plus, if I tell this guy I look like if Carrie Underwood and a badger had a baby, then the audience will love me, too! The internet hates confident women who love themselves. (And for good reason! Way too powerful.) So, it’s a win-win scenario. And you know what they say: Nothing spells love like emotionally turbulent relationship challenges for the entertainment of others. (Call up Etsy because that belongs on a pillow!)
However, I must clarify that this is a two-part strategy. My personality would have to be off the charts. Easygoing? My middle name is “low maintenance.” Cooking skills? I trained in Paris. Sense of humor? I’ll have him convinced he’s hilarious if it’s my last dying fake laugh. The key is to secure the love and affection of the mid guy on the other side of the wall before I start dropping hints like:
Something I can’t live without? My nose hair trimmer.
What celebrity do I most look like? The Babadook.
If my friends had to describe me in one word? Sallow.
My skincare routine? Slathering anti-fungal cream on my horrible warts.
My biggest regret? Getting laser hair removal on my eyebrows. (The unibrow just grew back twice as bad.)
Of course, this would mean that I need to lower my expectations for whatever type of guy falls for a Parisian-trained, super chill, wart-infested girlie. But if I’m on this show, I’ve already given up all standards for a healthy, happy relationship. What is Love Is Blind if not a thinly veiled conservative social experiment gone wrong? To really seal the deal, I’d mumble something about traditional gender roles and how much I love birth control. And boom! I’m engaged.
Then all I need to walk through that post-proposal tunnel is a slutty little dress, some massive eyelashes, and, idk, a Bible? They all have Bibles on this show. All I know is this man will be thanking GOD that I don’t actually have chronic adult lice like I said I did. You’re welcome, fiancé.
