I feel sorry for ugly people. Actually, that’s not true, but it’s a thought I deliberately generate sometimes in order to feel like I’m a good and caring person. If you aren’t attractive, your life is worth less, is handicapped, is dispossessed. If you aren’t attractive, you skim the surface of things, hover at the edge of the dance floor, believe life will improve for you at some mythical future date (it won’t). If you aren’t attractive, you’ve always suspected there was a party you weren’t invited to, a job you didn’t get, a deep spiritual contentment you’ve never experienced — and let me be the one to tell you: you’re absolutely right. Your version of happy is my version of okay. You have only one life to live, and you must live it as an ugly person who doesn’t matter — it’s a wonder you have any self-esteem at all!
Listen, I am wearing a gold chain right now. Understand?
My favorite topic of conversation is this: all these bothersome girls who want to have sex with me. Why can’t they leave me alone, these sluts! I could talk about it all day, and I do! I am buried in sluts, drowning in sluts. Every time I meet a girl, I flirt with her so that when she reciprocates, I can say to my friend later, “Yeah, she wants my nuts, but I just blow her off.” When I say it, I make a little snorting noise and take a drag on a cigarette. I don’t even consciously understand what I’m doing; only that my self-esteem feels like an overweight cat lying on its back, getting its belly rubbed vigorously by someone with strong but delicate fingers. Often, I even invent wholesale fabrications about how a particular girl at the bar exhibited interest, but I declined her advances due to my superior worth as a human being.
I love to tell friends about the one time his girlfriend may or may not have flirted with me — “I remember before you guys met, Jessica always had this weird thing for me. Like, she’d text me all the time and comment on my Facebook, and I was like, ‘Naaaaaaah!’, but then she met you, so that’s great.” I say this just so he knows their relationship is a gift I’ve bestowed out of my own benevolence since, should it have suited my capricious fancy, I could have snatched her up in a heartbeat. Don’t forget, it’s never too late for me to make my move, buddy. Hahaha, just kidding!
I should start spelling my name with a dollar sign.
Recently, I read an article about how attractive people have a higher probability of being intelligent than ugly people. According to scientists, people intuit that beautiful people are smarter because they actually are smarter: intelligent people are better able to generate wealth, and this attracts sexy people, and then they have sexy intelligent children, and thus, I am born, the product of countless generations of perfect breeding, the golden child, the Kwisatz Haderach. I’m like that baby at the end of Children of Men or that baby at the end of American Horror Story. Goddamn, every day I discover new ways I’m better than other people.
Take yesterday for example: I heard these two guys discussing internet porn. One said, “Asian porn is kind of weird.” The other said, “I don’t like it. It’s all about raping schoolgirls and tentacles going up your butthole.” Then I go, “I don’t need to look at porn because I can just talk to girls in the real world.” Boom! Those two losers knew immediately I was a greater and more important human being because I have more sex than them. Having sex means I am validated as a person, that I am harvesting pleasurable sensory experiences en masse, and am therefore maximizing enjoyment of my limited time on this earth. They don’t understand that life is like the end of The Mummy starring Brendan Frasier — you have to grab as much loot as you can from the pharaoh’s treasure room before it sinks into the sand and is lost forever. If you leave all the gold and jewels, then what was the point of getting terrorized by the mummy for two hours? Huh? What was I talking about?
Drown me in a bathtub full of Hollister cologne.
Being attractive is hard work. That’s something I often think to myself. Ugly people don’t have to deal with all these random people who want to kiss faces. They don’t have to consider things like hair or muscles or clothes. As far as I can tell, they blunder around in a state of clueless serenity, doing math and shopping at Kohl’s. When someone likes them, they know it’s for their personality, but not me — I will never know whether she loves me or my indescribably gorgeous visage. Damn this chiseled jaw, these cheese grater abs! Damn these straight white teeth, these enormous biceps! Distracting girls from my sparkling personality!
Modern civilization is designed around the elevation and adoration of beautiful people like me. We are the only culturally acceptable type of human, the only ones fully embraced by television and movies, the demographic who matters most. It’s not our fault — humanity’s collective eyeballs seek out only symmetrical faces that adhere to the golden ratio for beauty echoed throughout the universe, the underlying measurements and proportions that denote hotness written into the fabric of reality. You, on the other hand, are a square peg trying to shove your way through a round hole. And what’s worse is your self-image is clearly all screwed up because you seem so content with looking like that, or maybe you’re just not smart enough to notice. In any case, if I looked like you, I would either get plastic surgery or kill myself. Probably I would kill myself. Aww, but it’s so cute you’re okay with it. Girls would date you. I’m sure they would. At least one. Somewhere. I’m sure of it.