The life of a genetic mutant is indeed a bittersweet one. People fixate on your peculiarity with both curiosity (which is based on love) and repulsion (which limits your sexual life to porn and masturbation).
I’ve received such conflicting signals my whole life. Born with strabismus, my malformity only amplifies the feeling of otherness. The lonesome ache of knowing that no girl will ever genuinely love me or give me blowjobs, is devastating. No, don’t get up—don’t try to leave the room or offer me a handkerchief—I’m OK.
Growing up, I never had any friend. I never felt loved. Never felt wanted. Always felt like a balled-up piece of paper someone had chucked into a waste-basket. I guess one man’s hideous optics is NOT another’s pillar of love.
Not only do I have crappy eyesight, I also have a crappy job. I’m a grave-digger. This guarantees lifelong celibacy, as no woman wants to fu.ck a shifty-eyed gravedigger. The maidens in my village don’t want a man coming home from work all muddy, smelling like worms and embalming fluid. They refuse to be another burial plot for me to plough. No woman wants me sinking my tombstone into them.