Oh The Douchebaggery

I have a wickedly talented friend who has recently designed a line of t-shirts.

Friends, I limit the usage of my signature tag line to the few things worthy of it...but I will go ahead and say this,
Debbie Allen's tees are phunky phresh.
That's right, you heard it from Krunky Brewster first.

(For all of you scratching your heads, that's my breakin' name)

So Debs enlisted a few of her friends to model her shirts in order to pump up her look-book.

I was on board because:
a) I'm a ham
b) I honestly have nothing better to do
c) FREE AWESOME T-SHIRT!!!

I'm not harboring any delusions of grandeur.
I know I am no Giselle (even Giselle's not Giselle, but rather a space alien cloaked in humanoid skin), but I like to think I am easy on the eyes.
Dear god, either I have been fooling myself or the camera HATES me.

I do not like having my picture taken.
I am always the one with her head turned or down.
I know it sounds silly, but I feel like I am grandstanding if I actually pose for a picture.

I mean, every time somebody tells me I have pretty eyes, I can no longer look them in the face.
It feels like bragging.
Like, "Damn straight! Look at these superior orbs!"

In other words, I make a terrible model.

I walk around everyday using my face.
I eat, I breathe, I smile, I grimace (oooh, do I grimace!).

But put a camera in front of me and I am a one-trick pony.

My go to face says "Do I smell a fart"?

Tyra and crew would have a field day with me.

Add modeling as one less option in my search for gainful employment.