Once upon a time, being compared to Miley Cyrus was such a vile proposition that it almost ended my relationship. My adorably naïve then-boyfriend (now-husband) thought he was giving me a compliment when he said, “Y’know who you remind me of?”
In return, he received his first-ever JENNIE DEATH STARE. I launched us into a fight so atrocious and unexpected that I almost scared him away for good. But you guys, I really couldn’t stand Miley Cyrus. I wasn’t into the tacky glitz; I wasn’t into the cheesy music; I definitely wasn’t into knowing that the basis for the comparison probably stemmed from the fact that we both have the adorably pudgy cheeks of a baby cherub (all I’ve ever wanted are visible cheekbones).
But, most of all, I wasn’t into this version of the girl next door: seemingly vacuous, clearly catering to the male gaze, and generally coming across as kind of blah in an effort to…
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