It might sound kind of conceited, but I would say that most of my close friends would consider themselves pretty people. It’s not really anyone’s fault, they don’t try to be so pretty–for them it wasn’t even a choice. They just happen to be one of the lucky few. The lucky few who can walk down the street with the kind of confidence that only comes with perfect bone structure, a killer body, even skin, and a super glamorous outfit. The four combined creates one of the most deadly cocktails known to man. The pretty person.

Most pretty people know that they’re pretty. If I’m a pretty person, I would say I’m not actively aware of my status as one. But nevertheless I was invited into their tribe, and treated as an equal amongst some of the prettiest of the pretty. Sometimes I wonder why I was so lucky. Lucky to be surrounded by that kind of pretty all the time.

Maybe I’m the ugly friend. Every pack of pretty people needs an ugly friend to balance out the group. After all, my pretty friends are the good natured, selfless kind, willing to send out their tendrils of charity and offer me the kind of friendship that ugly people just can’t afford.

I love my friends. I really do. But more and more I feel less lucky, and more a social anomaly.

Sometimes it sucks being the ugly friend to pretty people.