I’m not pretty; I’m not a looker.

I’m overweight, and unkempt, and my fashion sense is non-existent, because I think fashion is mostly ridiculous window dressing, unnecessary for anyone of substance.

Why waste time on clothes if you’re not a model or going to a wedding or something?

Of course, it’s a biological thing partially, to attract potential mates, and an ego thing partially to make one feel better about at least one’s outer appearance.

Me, I’m a comfy clothes kind of guy; I can’t be bothered to tuck in.

Ever. Not since I was a child, when I would be forced to do so, and would untuck immediately, as quickly as possible.

Anyway, not pretty.

Would be nice to be.

Maybe people would treat me better.

I hear that happens for the good looking. And they get paid more.

How fair is that?

Nice jawline, bro, have an extra ten grand a year. Great butt, here’s twenty. Nice smile, bright eyes, high cheekbones?

Thirty, forty, fifty.

Great tits, six pack abs?

A hundred!

Life is real shitty for the uggos.

Target: 1700 words
Written: 1522 words, novel: Father Lightning

Read: Proof Of Conspiracy, Seth Abramson
Comics: The Mutant Misadventures Of Cloak And Dagger 4-7
Music: A Hard Day's Night, The Beatles (fucking masters)