For years we hear there is a secret, that we can manifest specific requests, a larger life, impeccable breasts.
Fresh canvas makes a date with a clean palette adorned with gorgeous globs of fresh paint, next to a cup of brushes standing nearly straight. Years go by, the sad canvas sags, beside hardened mounds of pigment bound to the pallet’s plastic, brushes still standing proud. The key they said was to just wish and wait; the part they don’t tell you: we paint our own fate.
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