Friday, July 10, 2009

Smoke-Signal or Fortune-Cookie?

You were one of those pretty little things. Ones that occur in nature only by sheer accident. Yes, you were astoundingly pretty. With bright innocuous eyes that sparkled like an onyx, glistening hair that made people stare open-mouthed. You looked like you were carved out of marble. You inspired awe.. or jealousy. Mostly both. And as is the norm de rigueur, your prettiness was your first class ticket into the charmed circle of manicures and eyelash curlers. Tomes of knowledge were replaced by Cosmo, and friends by giggle-brigades and disposable boyfriends.

I am merely an observer, and I choose to view from a distance. But I feel sorry for strayed, lost souls, even though a part of me is convinced that their own stupidity called for it. And now that I am convinced that you have acquired dysmorphia and no longer have any concept whatsoever of how you are perceived by others, there is something I think you should know. The cakes of makeup, bleached hair and mere inches of clothing make you look like a trampy transvestite. And none of the farcical dolts you surround yourself with, will ever have the heart to tell you that.

Sad. Because you really were very pretty.
Beauty is wasted in the most distasteful of manners. Sheesh!