Categories > Cartoons > Class of the Titans > Being Beautiful
Being Beautiful
5 reviewsRandom snippet (as in short) that just popped into my head, compleatly unexpected. It's about Neil (for all you Neil fans out there), and is pretty dark. I'm actually not sure where it came from. A...
1Insightful
Being Beautiful
I swear I could have gone blind from the flashing cameras, or insane from the rigid life style. Narcissus' bloodline does me good, takes away some of the rigor I watch other models going through. The dieting, the obsessive weighing and measuring, I can go through all these trials with confidence. Sure, my own beauty takes work. I need to be clean to be beautiful, keep the muscle under the skin toned and the skin itself glowing. Aphrodite forbid I ever get a tan line marring that perfect smoothness. It's a difficult double identity, trying to be brave enough to save the world and yet cautious enough to avoid the scars of battle (although that would develop a sexy, rugged look, but then I'm not Logan). Even with my troubles however, I have never resorted to drugs.
I've watched my friends waste away, seen them bent over glass tables in posh rooms, sucking up that poison into their brains and beautiful bodies. All the public sees is the catwalk, those few perfect strides in perfect clothes and makeup. They don't know the stress, don't know the lengths all those beautiful people go to so the pain and worry will go away.
No-one cares when a model disappears along with the fashion they wore. No-one recognizes the sunken-eyed, sick men and woman that hang out in clubs, attempting to get some of their former glory back. Wanting someone to notice them, to look at them and think them beautiful. That is not the way things work in that world.
Now I have different friends. Unfashionable friends, yes, but good, loyal and intelligent friends. Friends that won't disappear.
I swear I could have gone blind from the flashing cameras, or insane from the rigid life style. Narcissus' bloodline does me good, takes away some of the rigor I watch other models going through. The dieting, the obsessive weighing and measuring, I can go through all these trials with confidence. Sure, my own beauty takes work. I need to be clean to be beautiful, keep the muscle under the skin toned and the skin itself glowing. Aphrodite forbid I ever get a tan line marring that perfect smoothness. It's a difficult double identity, trying to be brave enough to save the world and yet cautious enough to avoid the scars of battle (although that would develop a sexy, rugged look, but then I'm not Logan). Even with my troubles however, I have never resorted to drugs.
I've watched my friends waste away, seen them bent over glass tables in posh rooms, sucking up that poison into their brains and beautiful bodies. All the public sees is the catwalk, those few perfect strides in perfect clothes and makeup. They don't know the stress, don't know the lengths all those beautiful people go to so the pain and worry will go away.
No-one cares when a model disappears along with the fashion they wore. No-one recognizes the sunken-eyed, sick men and woman that hang out in clubs, attempting to get some of their former glory back. Wanting someone to notice them, to look at them and think them beautiful. That is not the way things work in that world.
Now I have different friends. Unfashionable friends, yes, but good, loyal and intelligent friends. Friends that won't disappear.
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