"Her face resembles that of a fish. Like, her lips are pouty, but in a fish-like way. And her eyes are a bit goggly and bulgy. Seriously. Fish-like."
"Does that mean you like her face, or not?" This was the eleventh girl I'd picked.
"Well, some people
(more) like the fishy look, I personally don't, but to each his own... beauty is in the eye of the beholder..."
"Dude. Any more of your stupid cliches and I'll strangle you. Look, she's talented, somewhat attractive and actually kind of nice to talk to. I'm going to override your stupid opinion and bring her in. OK? Matter over."
"OK, but I take no responsibility if people don't like her looks."
"Looks aren't that important when the talent's there. And she has bucketfuls of talent."
"Fine. But don't say I didn't warn you."
"Trevs, you did warn me. Several times. Now come on, it's time to be famous."
I remember that conversation like it was yesterday. But it was actually ten years ago, and I am standing backstage with my guitar watching Trevs and Trina work the crowd.
Well, not really a crowd, more like a smattering.
The following day, a review of our performance appears in the paper. Like nearly every other review, it scathingly comments that Trina's face is too fish-like, and it distracts from her otherwise outstanding performance.
For ten years we've been grasping at fame and managed to grab it only atom by atom.
And with every review, I sink more into guilt, Trina into shame, and Trevs into self-righteousness.
It's only when our group nearly splits up that we realise nobody except us cares about our splitting.
So we decide to take one last grab at fame, save up, and pay for plastic surgery for Trina. Watch this space...(less)
