In yesterday's VICE, Samantha Sick claimed other women loathe her for being too attractive. It provoked a worldwide internet storm. Here she says: "This bile just proves I'm right."
Like Samantha Brick, for me the past 24 hours have been—to be blunt—among the most beautiful of my life, but also the saddest. But then, the 4,510 (at the time of writing) people who have left comments on VICE.com, and the billions who have done the same on Twitter, would probably say that it's all God's fault for building me with such a pretty mouth and a heart strong enough to take the slings and arrows when my truths start to hurt people.
Yesterday, I wrote an article on this website, screaming for answers: Why do women hate me for being wonderful? The response it provoked has been extraordinary in its velocity and venom, and crueller than any injustice I can recall from any period of history.
Of course, I presumed when I came up with the idea that it would inspire devotion. I'd even prefaced the idea by explaining to my friends that I was about to experience an explosion of fame and that I wouldn't be needing them any more. I knew this was sensitive territory and that they'd take umbrage—but ultimately fat people make you fat, ugly people make you ugly, and the unsuccessful drown you in their mediocrity.
Celebrities were quick to wade in.
I thought that my beauty was a taboo that needed flushing. Yet even I, with my often-overlooked powers of foresight, could never have imagined the thousands upon thousands of violent physical attacks I've been subjected to since it was published.
I've also been ridiculed on Twitter. Saddest for me was when Dragons' Den judge Duncan Bannatyne called me "a nasty little tumour with turds for eyes," DJ Lauren Laverne tweeted about me all day threatening to hit me with her van and countless so-called comedians have followed me home and scrawled jokes across my pert bosom in lipstick and garbage water.
Other people who don't know me have queued up patiently to abuse me on a free, direct telephone line organized by BT.
Then there are those who have sought out my aunt's address and bombarded her windows with shit-filled condoms—over 1,000 so far.
I've had malicious love letters from everyone from Swedish politicians to bored Danish Freemasons asking me what planet my legs have been beamed in from, (no doubt these people are referring unkindly to the subtle scarring from my helicopter accident). To counter this, I've simply put an Out Of Office message on my email, which reads: "my legs have been beamed from planet FUCK YOU."
This was all from able-bodied strangers. But far worse came from those handicapped people who had long considered me their superior. When I logged on to Facebook, I found a group of them had torn me to shreds. Some were asking: "Is it immoral to test unstable chemicals on Sam's knees and armpits? I think not."
Others I haven't seen since Australia's Next Top Model had crawled from their caves to criticize me for "having the personality of a euthanised goat in crotchless tights"—and even for having a "girly voice."
While the global condemnation has left me crying at the bottom of my leaky jacuzzi, I have just this to say: my detractors have simply proved my beauty. Their level of anger is so extreme, because my beauty is so dramatic. "Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?" If you did, the summer's day would probably fucking explode from envy.
In my article, I recalled how men I'd never met before had fed mountain lions vodka, filed down their teeth and brawled with them in the foyers of expensive restaurants—all on account of my pretty face.
Samantha Sick, pictured with her husband, professional Nerf player Pascal Sick.
And yet women had reacted to my sumptuous legs, breasts, eyes, and tusks in a very different way. They have refused to give me my own parking space at work and friends had forced me into high chairs at important society dinner parties, fearing that Ben Kingsley fancied me.
Without doubt, this is an issue of gross impudence. For it is only because I am more glorious than a thousand suns that I am being attacked. Sisterhood? Grow up.
If Brad Pitt were to say: "Yes, I'd like to explore the galaxy between Samantha's legs," then I would nod sagely in agreement. But if Angelina Jolie uttered something along those lines, I would hurl her from a cliff-top while foaming at the mouth. That's just me.
I've been astounded at the figures of global diplomacy—I'm talking well-known peacemakers and Arabian warlords here—who, rather than entering into a debate about which part of my undercarriage was the most good-looking, have instead taken to their Twitter accounts to call for a global military strike upon not only my house, but also the graveyards my ancestors are buried in.
No debate, no discussion, let's just attack this bit of skirt for daring to declare herself a most glorious and terrible Ice Queen.
Take the latest message I've just received, which is pretty mild—but the intention is still to wound: "I am looking through your window and wondering which of your dogs will begin to eat you first once I've sealed the house off and tied you to the banisters." That's from David Duchovny, the man who sexed up primetime and a one-time hero of mine. Alas, no longer. Very sad.
Or how about this one, who used her office email and signs herself as the Deputy Leader of the Labour Party: "You look a ridiculous cunt, you makes me ill."
I guess it's just another example of brainless nonsense from the troglodytes who inhabit Britain. Bring the hideous fuckers on, I say.
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