I recently saw a photo of myself with a group of friends in which my eyes were half closed and it looked like I was staring at the chest of the woman in front of me. I looked like I just wanted to get back to my coffee and donut. I have heavy eyelids and there's nothing I can do about it.
The world does not need me to add to its creepiness. There's more than enough to go around, much more than I remember growing up. Or maybe I just never noticed. That's the burden of being a writer. You see and hear everything.
In order to seem normal I'm going to have to fabricate exotic vacations and maybe rent a spouse and kids just for Facebook photos.
I bet certain women find my droopy lids sexy, like Robert Mitchum or Ryan Gosling. Or they could just be concerned I might be having a stroke.
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