Toward the tip of my teens, it began to dawn on me that my face was probably fully formed. That no radical change was forthcoming. That even back once I still held out hope, my features were meanwhile settling, treacherous, right into a mediocrity which surprised, humiliated, crushed me. In other words, I used to be not going to be any great beauty. I used to be only going to be what I used to be: attractive occasionally, like most individuals, relative to whoever happened to face nearby. I used to be horrified; I couldn’t recover from it. Being average-looking is, by definition, completely normal. Why hadn’t anyone...
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