For as long as I can remember, I was one ugly motherfucker. From birth, all the way to the beginning of my freshman year in college, I would send women fleeing to the hills shortly after first contact. It wasn’t that I was naturally hopeless, you see—more that I was unhygienic, socially clueless, overweight, a bit of a late bloomer, and had a set of teeth that looked like they belonged to a British boxer who had a bit too much of an affinity with tea time. All of these things weren’t too pleasant, and of course it took me some time to develop the self-awareness and maturity to recognize them, but they were things that I always saw as alterable so long as I put in the effort and energy to change them.
One day, towards the start of my time at University, I decided I had had enough of my virginal, depressing life and changed my life for the better. I hit the weights, bought clothes that fit me, scheduled monthly haircuts, got fitted with braces to fix my teeth, and began integrating myself in the American college lifestyle of parties, drugs, and social gatherings to improve my communication skills.