MY NAME IS JACKIE. DON’T BOTHER WRITING IT DOWN, I KNOW YOU’LL REMEMBER IT. YOU KNOW WHY? BECAUSE EVERY TIME YOU LOOK IN THE MIRROR, EVERY NIGHT BEFORE YOU FALL ASLEEP AND EVERY MORNING JUST AFTER YOU WAKE UP, YOU WILL SEE YOURSELF AS YOU ARE AND KNOW, INTRINSICALLY, THAT JACKIE EXISTS AND SHE IS BETTER THAN YOU. EVERY TIME YOU TRY TO PUT ON A CUTE OUTFIT? JACKIE IS BETTER THAN YOU. EVERY TIME YOU THINK YOU DID WELL ON A TEST? JACKIE IS BETTER THAN YOU. THE AFFECTION AND SUPPORT OF YOUR FAMILY, THE PRAISE AND RECOGNITION OF YOUR CAREER— THEY ARE AS NOTHING BEFORE THIS FINAL, ULTIMATE TRUTH: JACKIE EXISTS, AND SHE IS BETTER THAN YOU. SHE IS MORE THAN A GODDESS, SHE IS THE CORPOREAL MANIFESTATION OF THE CONCEPT OF PERFECTION. SHE IS A DIVINE GIFT. HER COMPLEXION GLOWS LIKE THE EARLIEST RAYS OF DAWN LIGHT TOUCHING THE SOFTEST OF LILY PETALS ON A STILL POND, PRISTINE IN THE HIGH MOUNTAINS. HER HAIR IS A LUSCIOUS CASCADE OF CHOCOLATE AND SILK THAT REMAINS FLAWLESS WHETHER SHE IS MODELING IN PARIS OR RIGHTEOUSLY SMITING HER ENEMIES INTO A SUPPURATING PUDDLE OF THEIR OWN DESPAIR. HER MIND IS A PRECISION INSTRUMENT THAT BEARS NO COMPETITION; HER CHARM MELTS STEEL AT FIFTY PACES. MORTALS ARE DUST BEFORE HER. THE FINEST ARTWORKS OF THE WORLD ARE MUD PIES AT HER FEET. EVERYTHING YOU ARE, EVERYTHING YOU CAN EVER ASPIRE TO BE IS SO MEANINGLESS AS TO BE NONEXISTENT COMPARED TO THE FACT THAT JACKIE EXISTS, AND SHE IS BETTER THAN YOU. SO CRY, PEASANT, AS YOU KNEEL BEFORE YOUR FINAL GOD.