As the body count has grown on the streets of Syria, and the people of Burma have enjoyed their first taste of democracy, the number-one issue which has dominated the opinion pages in the western world this past week has involved a column by an English woman called Samantha Brick who is worried about being too pretty.
Brick, a regular columnist with London’s Daily Mail, set some sort of world record for self-absorption with a 1000-word rumination on the curse of being attractive, specifically taking aim at her female friends (and ex-friends) for being intimidated by her apparently stunning looks.
The column was a shining demonstration of first world problems. Brick talked about how she dreaded going to dinner parties and would even dress as a frump so as to not show up the other poor women in attendance, who even then would pale in comparison to her untameable beauty.
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Ladies, please keep your distance today. For one day in the year, I beg you. Allow me to repose unpestered and alone in my magnificence. Today, I need my space.
Today, my perfect face with its high cheekbones and steely jaw is unusually furrowed, and all because of a wonderful column by UK writer Samantha Brick. Not until I read her raw, groundbreaking words did I realise I share her problem.
Samantha and I are siblings in exquisiteness. We are soul brother and sister in sheer physical splendour. Like Ms Brick, I am a victim of my own vivacity and it’s time my plight was highlighted.
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