Sunday, 30 November 2014

Renée Zellweger stole my face

I don't even have a foot print any more.

I'm so underground the girls can't even find me.

The ones that stumble by don't even notice me. I'm hidden. Hidden by walls and walls of excess fat, grey hair, hair in weird places. It's a balaclava that inspires indifference at best, and slight revulsion at worst. Mainly the former. I blend into the indifference afforded to the middle aged.

When I was young I wished for super powers. Who wouldn't want to be invisible? But then, when you are, you don't know what you want any more.


Imagine waking up one day and seeing your face on the red carpet. A celebrity has "taken it too far" and become a "plastic surgery disaster". Twitter is going bananas. Lines are drawn in the sand over whether its a horrible mistake or simply a bad joke. Yet all you see is your face, paralysed by botox, sitting on someone else's shoulders. How 'ugly' the media cries, how could they 'ruin' their good looks. How could they turn themselves into this monster?

And so here I am now, laying on the floor, with an ego the size of ant sperm, sucking the top of a tipped over wine bottle. What are the chances.

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