too many good looking people drink. It makes them ugly, it makes everything ugly, it does that on purpose, and anybody looking for something beautiful knows it. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, beauty hurts. It has bad skin now and wants fake tits, bigger hips and all that shit. Beauty never goes hungry; it eats all the time.
I can remember looking at my self in the mirror when I was a teenager. I can remember staring so long I could see someone else, it was me, but I was a monster. I had long hair. I was the only boy in my school who grew his hair out. The first time I was ever allowed to grow my hair out, I wasn't even a teenager. I was eleven, and I got made fun of. My mom wouldn't let me grow it all out, just the little bit on the back of my neck. It was awful, but I took what I could get, and I got it.
I wanted long hair forever, but at soccer practice while waiting to run drills I was made fun of, by this asshole with great hair named David. "Fag tag!" he'd squat. His fucking sarcastic voice, it bothered me! I was eleven, I cut it off. As a teen I had more nerve, I was ready for ridicule by then. Except things were different. The world wasn't what it used to be. I was living over sea's on another continent. I was the only boy who wore his hair long among all the boys in his school. I had this French teach there, she was from Belgium, she was beautiful, she told me to cut! I had the biggest crush on her. Here class was unique, it was somewhere I could be myself. That was strange, since she always told me I'd look better with my hair cut.
The classroom was filled with other kids that were mostly raised in Riyadh, they were all brought up in Saudi. I was one of the only Canadians there, except I fit in because I had already lived in Europe and I was multilingual. French class was easy for me, but that wasn't the case for everyone. Some of the other kids were Lebanese but they were Christian and they spoke French. There was a few American girls there too. All as American as they can be being raised on a Compound in the Desert in the Heart of the middle east. There was on local in the class though. One real local, his family fought for Royalty, they fought for control of one of the most iconic Religious sectors on the Planet, and I guess they lost. He was rich though, like real rich, Terrorist Rich. I remember him telling me that the Arabs didn't hate Canadian, he said "Naw, just the English" he smiled and would say "and the American." The French teach loved having him in our class, so we got to hear so much about the struggles of a thirteen year old, almost prince.I remember listing to the stories.
I was so alone there. We lived on the outskirts of the city, on a military compound. My mom was working for the national guard hospital. She was a single woman, that sent her weird teenage son from Canada to an inner city school, in the Capital of Saudi Arabia. There was no grant funding for that. I was one of a kind. I was so alone because of the way it had to worked over there.