Cyclops' EyesDonald Illich
The plain-looking people can't shop in the exciting part of town. They bum everyone out. Their noses aren't ugly enough to be interesting, which turns into beauty when the dollar falls out of love with overworked perfection. Each scar and mole is arranged so figure-less constellations dull their faces. Skinny legs and arms, bloated bodies, offend salesclerks, who shoo untouchables away, call security guards in unmarked vans to pick them up, deposit losers in suburban homes. When the plain look in a mirror they believe they're gorgeous. No one perms like them, works out in the basement as hard. They could be in a heavy metal band or reality show, fight for millions, talented enough to beat anyone. They're not the truly ugly, who live in towns far away, wiping pimply brows, fingering vacant tooth sockets, or the uglier still, who volunteer to sweep homeless shelters with prehensile tails, see through everyone with Cyclops' eyes that penetrate life to its atoms, arranged in a perfect order that couldn't be any other way.
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