Why I'm never in pictures

I invite you all to direct your peepers towards the picture below. It suggests a grand old time full of puerile shenanigans and soused tomfoolery. Dare I say, it is an artfully executed exposé of our many moments of freakish conduct.



Now, if you look closely, you might see a man in gray in the background. He is perfectly centered and at a sensible distance. But make no mistake: despite his portrait-like stance, he is still in the background. That man is me. Thankfully, the photographer knew better than to capture a dull moment of idle chitchat between myself and one of my bearded peers.

You see, I theorize that, to save his or her own artistic integrity, the picture taker in question felt the need to add a boorish lout popping out of the upper left-hand corner of the frame. But the man was no mere lout, mind you. Surely, he was an assistant, a model if you will, who, knowing full well that conventional beauty is often times overindulged, took it upon himself to incarnate the antithesis of resplendency. His raw skill and bravado led him to deliberately overexpose his features thus revealing a singular shade of pale weak magenta blemished only by a confronting jaw, an intruding nasal fixture and the haunting brutish gaze of Boris Karlov. He risked it all by blocking the remainder of my face with that which even his own modesty could not deny: his solar flair locks. But he came out triumphant.

In the end, this depiction successfully emphasizes the lunacy of our ways by obscuring any hint of artificial civility that might have otherwise emerged. The artist has finally captured what is constantly sought after by others, the essence of truth.