Reasons Not to Kill Yourself Today, No. 1: Kate Moss Has Cellulite

Kate Moss, the only model in the world, recently closed the Louis Vuitton show at Paris Fashion Week. I wasn’t there, but that doesn’t matter. I’ve seen the detail shots. And though I’m supposed to care about fashion for a living, I can only remember two things about Mossie’s outfit. One, a cigarette. Two, cellulite.

If you’re one out of ten females, you don’t have cellulite and never will. Good girl. Now, go stand in the corner and cover your ears while the other nine say terrible, awful, no-good things about you.

If you’re one of the other nine, can you stop saying those things? So mean. Anyway. Yes, you either have cellulite or you’re going to, and yes, you feel like it’s your fault, and yes, it is. You should have been born a boy, just like Momma always said.

The first temptation might be to feel better about your sorry dimpled ass because, see? Kate Moss isn’t perfect either, and she’s Kate Moss! This is where you hit yourself. Harder. The idea of physical perfection died around 1995, when some asshole invented the digital camera. Also, Kate Moss is 37. How old are you? That’s what I thought.

Instead what you should feel good, truly great, truly bloody optimistic about is this: damn woman has been smoking a carton of cigarettes a day since puberty.  She’s done enough alleged cocaine to kill two and a half Charlie Sheens. The last time she got eight hours of  sleep was on an eight-hour British Vogue cover shoot (cause, you know, she does those with her eyes closed). She hasn’t eaten a square meal since people used the phrase “square meal.” She dated Pete Doherty.

And how has Kate Moss paid for this glittering multitude of sins? Does she have throat cancer? Is she missing a nostril? Has her spine crumbled into fairy dust? No, no, no. She has paid with one pound–if that–of lightly dimpled flesh, and I mean lightly. That may be cellulite, but it’s certainly not what you call “cottage cheese.” That’s, like, creme fraiche. You could eat that shit with new strawberries in a Chinese porcelain bowl, in the powder room, with late sunlight pooling in your lap. It’s almost beautiful, when you think about it.

Kate Moss is living, tar-breathing proof that you don’t always get what you deserve. Sometimes you screw your future and it loves you anyway. Life is magic. Think of Kate, that inexhaustible skeleton, and don’t quit. Don’t quit the cigarettes, the drugs, the gin. Don’t quit the high-risk lovers. Don’t quit a thing. I mean, you might want to quit being so skinny, but that’s just cause cellulite looks better on curves.