Comparison

Beautiful women, walking down the runway. Their breasts bounce slightly with each step. Their faces are grotesque art pieces. I lean on my broom and watch them. They seem like zombies, yet perfect angels. This one has horns, the next one has a halo. But both of them are staring, glaring, glowering.
Do they ever regret their lives? Do they ever regret coming here, watching their faces being transformed, being criticised like some food? Or do they like it? Attention is plenty, but they are like robots. Beautiful robots who have no opinions and are reduced to having to let other people choose for them, and write their personality all over their face.
Maybe I am just a janitor, but I am glad that I choose my looks.