The Societal Pressures of Being Ridiculously Hot That No One Except Me Wants to Talk About

man wearing eyeglasses and brown jacket
Photo by bruce mars on
No one warned me I would be this hot, except my parents’ obstetrician and every doctor throughout my life. They saw it in the first ultrasound and every check-up since then during my adolescence. It’s not like they couldn’t see there was something sexy as hell about me and do something about it to prepare me. It’s not like they never not-laughed at any of my self-deprecating jokes about my body or cynical attitude on life and on-point observational humor. No one prepared me for all this attention, except for everyone who gave me attention throughout my life.
It doesn’t feel fair that I’m hot and also smart and fun to be around. However, none of those are features I can do anything about. I can’t stop people from looking right at my perfectly-symmetrical face underneath my masterpiece-level sculpted hair without them immediately noticing that my glowingly attractive features serve to compliment my bomb ass sense of humor.
Yet, here we are. It’s unreasonable that anyone expects me to be both physically attractive to everyone while being one of the most hilarious of people – I mean, modeling and comedy are two completely separate mediums of entertainment – but it’s the burden I carry. Or at least it would be a burden if it didn’t feel so constantly effortless.
What, do you think I was put on this earth to be fully entertaining and look gorgeous doing it? For you? Who’s to say? This is the life I was given and I fully intend to live as my most natural self, in which I’m handsome as hell and all my jokes slay. Sometimes I wonder if Chrissy Teigen also feels this way, and in that way I get her and what she goes through. We’ve never met because she is more famous than I am. But then I remember that my humility is what has kept me from widespread fame and allows me to be more approachable to everyday folk in real life, and that all somehow makes me hotter.
Even when I decay with time I’ll still act like a hot person, which will make me inherently hotter with time via ego inflation. And when the time comes and I shuffle off this mortal coil (that’s a reference to Shakespeare’s Hamlet, but I’m also cultured AF), I imagine my headshot will be engraved into my tombstone to represent my chiseled my features were. However, this won’t be necessary because people have always seemed to remember that I am hot and retain a longterm photographic memory of my ridiculously gorgeous face. They may not remember my exact comedic content, but they’ll remember that I was the actual funniest person they’ve ever met.
Too bad this entire thought happens during the daily 5 seconds of confidence I feel before exiting my home and literally seeing any other stranger or hearing of others’ successes.

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