Handsome

I wake up and realize I’m the best looking man in the world. I study myself in the mirror. I am stunning, breathtaking. My eyes are a penetrating blue, set deep into my head and framed perfectly by black eyelashes and perfectly arched black eyebrows. My jawline is strong and chiseled. My cheekbones are high and just the slightest bit flushed.

I inspect myself for hours but I can’t find a single flaw.

People have to see me. I have to get out of the house. My parents are in the kitchen but, luckily, their backs are turned as they work away at the dishes. I don’t want them to fawn over me.

I step outside onto a crowded street and am overcome by the feeling that being beautiful is now hopelessly out of fashion.

Everyone looks like a walking Picasso. They have had their eyes rearranged so they sit atop one another, or on each side of their heads. Many have had their noses surgically enhanced or, in some cases, lopped off altogether. Slings, casts, and bandages abound from where they have had their arms and legs broken so they’ll grow back in some unnaturally twisted form.

One girl with a giant deformed nipple protruding from her neck throws a glance at me and rolls her hideous eyes back into her ears.