For the first time ever, I love myself.
My hair is shiny with great loft and just the right amount of pink.
My skin is tanned and wrinkle-free.
I have no body fat.
My outfits are on-point.
I ooze confidence.
I always know what to say and how to say it.
And I am photogenic as fuck.
I am fierce.
I am perfect.
I am my Bitmoji.
My brother had been texting me his Bitmoji for months and cracking me up in the process.
But I was too lazy and luddite to get on board.
During my trip to the snow a few weeks back, my friend Lori guided me and a friend through the Bitmoji-building process, and now I just can’t stop.
I shouldn’t be too surprised by this turn of events, as I love using emojis and pride myself on crafting the perfect combination of cat faces, food, fists and sports equipment to communicate just about anything.
But here’s the thing: emojis are cute and fun and all, but they are not us. The bitmoji, my bitmoji, is me: I get to pick my face and body shape, skin color, hairstyle, outfit, everything. And she’s goddamn adorable.
Turns out, we like to do the same things.
And have the same dreams.
We both love pizza.
And sipping tropical cocktails in the sun.
I can be having the worst day ever. But when someone sends me their bitmoji greeting, I race to send mine back and she always makes me smile.
My bitmoji has become my muse, my inspiration, my hero.
If you haven’t experienced the pure joy that is Bitmoji, download the app here.
Until then, my bitmoji and me wish you all to –