"Breathe deeply," you tell yourself.  "It isn't real."  You push the thoughts into their box, duct tape it closed, and neatly store it under "Society," "Image," "Perfection," and "VOGUE."  

Three months later, it rains.  You scream in grief.  "Perfection" is ruined.  Now there are only three boxes holding down your thoughts.  

So you get a boyfriend.  Running to Social Media Lock Box, you grab one and name it "Boyfriend."  Smiling from ear to ear, you stuff it on the others.  

Hurricane Popularity rolls in.  It devastates your stash.  All that is left is in the form of illegible tissue-like paper.  Tears running down your cheeks, you go to your emergency cupboard and stack a 8 x 11 box called "Makeup" on the 30 x 30 box, "Thoughts".

Day by day, makeup covers you.  On the 11th day, a counselor notices some fresh pink nail marks on your hands.  Quickly, you sprint to "Makeup" and shake it up because it isn't working.  

December.  You have no hair.  You ripped it all out.  Your eyebrows are bushy, your shoes are $5 sandals from Walmart, and you lay under your bed, hiding from "Thoughts."  "Thoughts" started peeking out soon after Hurricane Popularity struck.  Eventually, like a monster under a child's bed, "Thoughts" grew so large it overpowered "Makeup."  The duct tape was frayed and warped from the rain of Hurricane Popularity, and on only day 15 of "Makeup" keeping "Thoughts" help down, the duct tape split.  

Deemed somewhere between miracle and disaster, "Thoughts'" lid fell off.  Similar to a black hole, it absorbed makeup.