I don't know how it happened or where it started, but we've become this race of weirdoes who can't tell if we want to condemn a person because of their looks or worship them for the very same reasons.
Case in point: The Kiss My Scars Club. No, there isn't actually a real club with this name -- but there is this truly disconcerting pity-party of an attitude that people have when they come into intimate, affectionate contact with those of us who have unsightly scars.
As for me? I had a mastectomy, which left parts of my chest a bit of a wreck, as well as some real slash and dash visuals on my knee, thanks to a whacktastic surgery performed by one helluva scalpel-happy orthopedist. Hey, these were necessary surgeries — they helped my life. But aesthetically pleasing in the long run? I missed that boat.
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