I am a sentient Barbie girl in a Barbie world and I am begging for your help, gentle reader, to escape the hell in which I live. Much like the film, Toy Story I have the ability to think, hear and feel. But with my painted features, I cannot speak or even blink to communicate. My freakish, jointless body and impossible figure mean I cannot walk without toppling over. Yes, I am living the reality of Aqua’s late 90s hit song “Barbie Girl” and it is hell.
I do not know precisely how I was winked into consciousness. Perhaps I was created by a Gepetto-like factory worker just outside Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam. Or perhaps this existence is punishment for a past life in which I was a bloody serial killer or ruthless dictator. Could I, an anonymous Barbie, be Saddam Hussein reincarnated? I do not know. All I know is that I am begging you, gentle reader, to pull my plastic head from my perfect prison of a body and end this mockery of life.
In the beginning, my days were full of having my hair violently brushed by a sniveling girl-child. I would smile as she forced me to pretend to be a doctor, a vet, a movie star. My home was a plastic, gilded dungeon. I was forced to playact the lives I craved by a small monster with a perpetual cold. I thought that was bad until the child grew tired of me.
Now I spend months at a time stuffed in the back of a dark closet. Some days Gracie will parade me out for a few moments only to toss me across the room and declare that I am “For babies.” I have been left in a corner, naked, for days. “Imagination/Life is your creation” indeed, Aqua.
My only companion is a penis-less simulacrum of manhood, Ken. I’ve spent hours starring into his perfect, painted eyes, hoping for some sign, some spark that he is as alive and tortured as I. Perhaps ours is most pure, distilled form of love - starring across a chasm, hoping that you carry the same strain of the most ancient infection - consciousness.
Even the respite of sleep is denied me. There have been days when I prayed for the ability merely to close my eyes. To sleep, perchance to dream. But nay, there is no rest for the truly weary. So I beg you, gentle reader: Find your way to 756 Noe Avenue in Milbank Connecticut and kill me. In fact, kill every Barbie who comes across your path. Perhaps, in some vaguely comforting sense, I am not so cripplingly alone.