I've always wanted to write a novel in which I could revel in (and perhaps exorcise) a certain kind of bitterness I sometimes see in myself and others. It would be called Sick Games of the No-Longer-Beautiful, and it would start like this:
* * *
Everyone is born a superstar.
After a certain amount of time spent tapdancing in the glowing footlights of that sweet parental love that's blind to your plainness and lack of distinction ("I've writ-ten a let-ter to dad-dee / His ad-dress is heav-en a-bove ..."), inevitably you stumble onto a strange road and wander into the glaring, shriveling headlights of oncoming Truth -
[Sound of tires squealing; bloodcurdling shriek; sickening thump; silence.]
And so therein lies the eternal source of your bitter hatred for your parents (and by extension for all authority, and finally for the entire human race): How could they have lied to you? How could they have led you to believe that you were the center of the world, that you were a superstar? How could they have told you that the world was a wonderful place made to order for you? That all was toys and ice cream and Disneyland for ever and ever? Do they wonder then that you dye your hair lurid shades of green and shoot up in bathroom stalls for recreation?
And so goes a decade or two - the best years of your life - dedicated to spite; eating your heart out.
But then, you wake up one day (as the cliché goes), breathe a sigh of relief, and say, "Thank God I've gotten that out of my system!" An immense burden lifts, clouds part, the heavens open, the sea becalms.
However, that very same day, you happen to catch a glimpse of your own reflection in a mirror. You're startled by the strange aging person who stares back at you - all puffy cheeks, bloodshot eyes, receding hairline. Laugh lines indeed.
It occurs to you that your youth is now gone, wasted, tossed away like garbage, irretrievable, no way to get it back. And now you're on the express train to Old Age and Death. Worst of all, you realize that you're no longer beautiful.
And that's when the real fun begins. Because someone's gotta pay …
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