Quotes About Appearance

Clothing is dishonesty in its purest form.

How she looks is watered-down. How she looks is disappearing. How she looks is erased. Don't stress, she says. This is just me not wearing any makeup.

Give me release. I'm tired of this world of appearances. Pigs that only look fat. Families that look happy. Give me deliverance. From what only looks like generosity. What only looks like love. Flash.

I know that when a supersexy older girl with hips and breasts and nice hair wants to take off your glasses and to paint you a smoky eye she's merely trying to enroll you in a beauty contest she's already won. It's a kind of slummy, condescending gesture, like when rich people ask poor people where they summer. To me, this smacks of a blatant, insensitive let them eat cake type of chauvinism.

Think of spoiled cat food and ulcerated cankers and expired donor organs. That's how beautiful she looks.

Sure, I want to look like I'm worth the ef­fort. Washed but not ironed. Clean but not pol­ished. Con­fi­dent but hum­ble.

Fuck me. I'm so tired of being me. Me beautiful. Me ugly. Blonde. Brunette. A million fucking fashion makeovers that only leave me trapped being me.

Bana ÅŸu boktan dünyada aynen göründüÄŸü gibi olan tek bir ÅŸey ver. FlaÅŸ!

It helps to know you're not any more responsible for how you look than a car is. You're a product just as much. A product of a product of a product.

Nobody used to look at George Washington, with his wooden teeth, in his powdered wig, and say, Fashion Victim.

Our greatest creation is our selves. The way we cultivate our appearance and behavior. And nowhere is our artwork more apparent than in our own minds. They way we each have an idea of self. The one perfect self we've chosen by rejecting all other options.

The gyms you go to are crowded with guys trying to look like men, as if being a man means looking the way a sculptor or art director says. Like Tyler says, even a souffle looks pumped.

I look like shit, dead. I look like dead shit.

but my mom's going to hate being hated. she's a skinny beautiful lady with perfect hair; she's just not equipped to deal with hate.

The way my face is without a jaw, my throat just ends in sort of a hole with my tongue hanging out. Around the hole, the skin is all scar tissue: dark red lumps and shiny the way you'd look if you got the cherry pie in a pie eating contest. If I let my tongue hang down, you can see the roof of my mouth, pink and smooth as the inside of a crab's back, and hanging down around the roof is the white vertebrae horseshoe of the upper teeth I have left.

It was beautiful. We were selling rich women their own fat asses back to them.

An orange-stained Los Angelina she wasn't. Not yet another bimbo beat hard with a blonde stick.

You know how you look at ugly hunchback girls, and they are so lucky. Nobody drags them out at night so they can't finish their doctorate thesis papers. They don't get yelled at by fashion photographers if they get infected ingrown bikini hairs. You look at burn victims and think how much time they save not looking in mirrors to check their skin for sun damage.

He pasado la mayor parte de mi vida adulta posando a cambio de un fajo de billetes por hora, luciendo ropa y zapatos, bien peinada delante de un fotógrafo de moda que me dice lo que debo sentir.

Posing girl, you are so Godawful ugly. Did you let an elephant sit on your face or what?

if i can't be beautiful, i want to be invisible

Por favor, enséñenme una sola cosa en el mundo que sea lo que parece.

Fine. Whatever. She's so unpleasant. Beautiful, sure, but it's like putting a dress on a badger. Pretty dress. Nice face. Still a badger.

How did all that revolutionary talk of the seventies land us in a place where being female means playing dumb and looking good?