Art by Jordana Globerman
There is nothing at all attractive about me. I am doomed to live my life completely and entirely alone. No, I am not the ugliest man in the universe. Nor am I the foulest smelling. Hell, I’m not even the most poorly dressed. I am just simply and plainly unattractive.
There is no single quality that one can isolate in regard to my overwhelming unattractiveness. Do I have snaggly teeth? No. Do I correct people’s grammar constantly? No. Am I Kathy Bates? Not even a little bit. Actually, by all objective and standard measures of attractiveness I should be doing okay. However, this is not the case. I am not doing okay. Women are not drawn to me, children recoil from me, even my own pets seem to slink away whenever I approach them. My goldfish, for example, almost always occupies the side of the fishbowl that is closest to my kitchen and thus farthest away from where I sleep and spend most my time. Actually, I’ve recently noticed that the only time my goldfish is on the other side of the bowl is while I am cooking dinner.
I am for obvious reasons quite lonely.
I’ve never been on a date; let’s get that one out of the way. I’ve also never had sex. I’ve actually never touched another human being outside of the 9 months I was in my mother’s uterus. My mother has told me that those nine months were particularly trying for her. She says that while she was pregnant with me, no one was willing to spend more than five minutes around her. She let me know this during one of our many five minute conversations, which is actually – to my mother’s credit – the longest anyone’s ever been willing to talk to me.
I have a pretty simple life. I am a writer. It’s one of those few jobs that really suits individuals that no one can physically stand to look at. I suppose I also could have gone into radio or been Carrot Top. However, writing seems to suit me.
I spend most of my days in my apartment alone. I do, however, make the effort to go to the grocery store at least once a week. I can say with absolute certainty that my best friend is the cashier in lane 4. She knows more about me than anybody outside of my parents. For instance, she knows that I like ham and that I like bread and that I prefer diet coke to regular coke and that I also like peanuts. I always make an effort to say hello to her and smile. I was once told by my mother that I have a beautiful smile. At the time, hearing my mother say that made me smile which made her wince. I prefer the lie to the reality however, so I continue to smile at the people I really love.
I think the cashier is someone who many people find attractive. Whenever I see her she seems to be controlling the attention of the entire room. Despite being a cashier, she’s incredibly special as she’s probably the only beautiful person in the world that has ever said hello to me. Her name is Rebecca. I read that off her shirt.
I don’t hate people. I think that’s what gets to me the most. I love people. If you read my novels you’d understand. Most of them are about the kindness of man, the nobleness of man, the coming together of communities. If you took all my novels, crushed them together, and pounded them out to their most pure form you’d basically be making the movie Rudy. There is absolutely no bitterness in my soul, no anger, no hate and yet I am lonely constantly. No living thing can stand me.
I think I think about love a lot more than the people who are in it. I imagine that once you fall in love, you sort of don’t notice it that much anymore. I think it is sort of like how once you get use to a favourite song, you can leave it playing in the background and eventually no longer feel that it’s anything special. I think that’s what loves like for a lot people. But love isn’t like that for me. I notice it all the time. I see it everywhere. I see old men and women. I see young men and women. I see everything.
The only thing I can’t seem to understand is why people can’t stand to look at me. What is it about me? What driving force makes others recoil at the slightest intimation that I might reach out and touch them. What could it be? Sure, I have penises for hands and my face is a vagina and I technically could and have fucked my face with my own hands. But still, they are beautiful penises and the vagina face is still a handsome face.
I guess I’ll l just have to sit and wonder.
Article By: David MacLean
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