"As an old man more than twice your age, one foot in the shadows of the Garden and the other firmly planted in the Grave, I would love to assure you that it gets better. I wish I could promise that the looks of disgust become ones of appreciation, that as women grow older they become more discerning and, with wisdom, will be able to see the virtues you've been blessed with rather than the curses you've been afflicted with. After all, when I was your age, I was offered similar sentiments by parents and friends. "When those girls at long last become women, all of those nasty snickers will become sighs of appreciation. Time will sharpen their perception and, after years of having ridiculed and hated you because of the ugliness of your flesh, they'll at long last be able to see the beauty of your soul."
But if I were to tell you these things, I would be the most egregious of liars. Now, rest assured, women will become too sophisticated to giggle in your presence, call you ugly to your face or cheer as the handsome boys they're so enamored of beat you for their amusement. They'll treat you with apparent respect, condemn bullies for their vicious behavior and swear before God, Man and Devil that a beautiful spirit is infinitely more valuable than a pretty face. You would almost be tempted to believe that advanced age had made Gnostics of them all.
Sadly, at least for the unlovely, all of those pretty words are never anything more than pretty fables uttered by pretty people. The girl who dreamed of the handsome man, more than willing to endure the worst of his abuse for the sake of his most casual embrace, is still harboring the same fantasies as her hair fades to gray and wrinkles begin to line her once porcelain face. Being a human being, our woman of a certain age still despises the ugly even though she knows she is morally obligated to do otherwise. So she won't laugh and point and insult. Older now, she'll merely turn away in the presence of an ugly man and maintain a dignified silence. Instead of returning his friendliness with a look of blatant disgust and harsh laughter, she'll manage a grim smile: the closest thing Nature will permit Her daughter to express by way of the civility expected of adults. Her hatred of the repulsive becomes more subtle as the sands trickle from the top of the hour glass to the bottom.
Lamentably, so too does the ability of the men she reviles to discern her loathing. The woman and the monster, the former despising the latter and the latter pining for the former, grow older in lockstep, learning each other's tricks as the lady marches toward her burial plot in God's Grand Garden and the unlovable ghoul to his proper place burning in one of Pandemonium's many ghettos.
When it comes to what is most essential, most significant and real, there is no difference between the nursery, playground, geriatric ward and tomb. So what if the language spoken in each sounds just a little bit different? These are regional dialects, nothing more. The distinction is nothing more than variations on a single theme that will repeat again and again and again until the day when the nursery, playground, geriatric ward and tomb exist no longer." - @TheWitchKing
