Have you ever seen a Renoir nude? I know you have, because you lived with me when I had them plastered all over my bedroom and we even saw some together in person. Do you remember what that was like for me, to be up close and in the presence of those paintings? I do. It was a breathtaking, world-altering, the-beauty-stops-your-heart kind of thing. I would run out of superlatives before I encompassed what Renoir’s work does to my soul. I was looking at a book of his nudes the other day, and I remembered something that I have known a thousand times and have forgotten, with your help, a thousand times. Those women look like me. I am built like that. I could have posed for the crazy old coot. Are you going to argue that my body isn’t beautiful, then? Are you really going to argue beauty with Pierre-Auguste? That’s like getting into a battle of wits with a Sicilian when death is on the line, and you, sir, are no Dread Pirate Roberts. Not only is there nothing wrong with my body, my body was celebrated and adored by a man who knew A TON about adoring women’s bodies. I love Renoir, and he would have LOVED me. You, sir, lose. Love wins. Please see yourself to the door.
I said, Good day, sir.