I'm not sad. I just have a natural downturn to the edge of my mouth. It's the end result of years of sulking, moping, indulging in convenient teenage angst. I try to combat the scars by applying daily facial moisturizers to the affected areas.
Oil of Olay has got me by the balls.
The photographer let me see myself in his camera viewscreen. As per usual, I couldn't see my likeness without adding a few sarcastic quips. I can't help myself. (That'd be a job for professionals.)
He took group shots of all us playwrights and then individual head shots. We posed with scissors and cell phones in a busy corridor outside the restrooms at the mall. Every few minutes we'd stop and stand aside so that the mall patrons could rush past, heads down, in their Sunday best. The corridor may have been busy, but it had nice light. Dugout light. Soft, flattering, textured light. The sort of light that makes playwrights look pretty. Not that we needed it, no sir. We're a damned good-looking group, and don't you forget it.
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