Have you ever wondered what it would have been like if Pablo Picasso and Stephen King got together and had a love child? On one hand, it might have been kind of cool seeing as how there’s never been a case of two men procreating together before, and when you consider that they both found a way to make a living from creating some pretty messed up things. On the other hand, it stands to reason that their love child would have been rather hideous looking, on account of it having been spawned missing one very important part of the equation, and the fact that its parents were known for dreaming up stuff other people normally envision.
Sometimes I wonder if I’m the love child of those two, because ‘hideous’ is pretty much how I would describe my looks. It’s like Daddy Pablo opted to put my eyes where my nose should be just for shits and giggles, and Daddy Steve-O decided that my mouth should look like something that would rather eat a child instead of a more appropriate appetizer.
Life is not kind to the physically deformed. People always recoil in horror the first time they see me. Those raised to be kind to the less fortunate do the best they can in that department, but they still can’t help but to avert their gaze a few millimeters past my head whenever they talk to me; and when someone does talk to me it’s usually in that patronizing “Good job, buddy!” tone people use on those with messed up brains. My brain’s just fine, thank you; it’s my face that’s a disaster.
That said, I have managed to make a few true friends in my lifetime. My best friend is Violet Allan. We’ve been friends since the first year of college. I’d do anything for her and vice versa. For instance, guys aren’t exactly lining up to date me, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t a part of me that likes to think there’s a man out there for me. I just need to show them I’m a regular person deep down inside. When I wasn’t meeting anyone the old fashioned way, I decided to set up an online dating profile. Now, no one’s going to swipe right when they see a face like mine, now are they? That’s why Violet, being the nice person she is, let me use her picture when I set up my account. I got a lot of dates that way; dates that ended the moment they saw what I really look like. Some guys stuck around out of politness, but none of them ever called for a second a date.
I thought I had broke my string of bad luck last Friday, though. His name was Greg and boy, was he ever good looking. Obviously he didn’t have Pablo Picasso and Stephen King for parents. Not only that, he didn’t bolt the instant he saw me and he actually talked to me as though he was interested. He laughed at my jokes, asked me about my hopes and dreams and, best of all, looked right at me the whole time.
I had found my happy ending, hadn’t I? Hell no. As much I need to credit Greg’s parents for raising him to be nice to ugly people, I’d also like to slap them up alongside of the head for not teaching him table manners. Seriously, the guy chewed his food as though he were the one with the facial deformity. He picked his teeth after every third bite, used his fork as though it were a shovel, and treated the table as though it was there to support his elbows rather than the dinnerware. I can’t help the way I look, but he certainly has a say in how he acts in public.
Ugh. The last thing I need is to add dating a Neanderthal to my long list of problems. So there will be no second date with Greg. I have to say, though, it was nice to be the one doing the rejecting for a change.
Anyway, if you can hold your own at a dinner party with the Queen of England and believe that beauty is only skin deep, check out my online dating profile. Or you can always email me at firstname.lastname@example.org.