How We Sexy: Treacher Collins Syndrome
A guide for the myopic multitudes
It boggles my mind that people with Treacher Collins suffer from confidence issues. How can beings more beautiful, strange and different than everyone else let the judgements of people so facially bland and mentally bereft that they can’t see past societies preferred delineation of beauty dictate how they feel about themselves, their own bodies?? Bodies that are OBJECTIVELY sexier than a normal, boring persons? I don’t know.
Then we have those polite, bland faced people who claim to see our unearthly hotness, but they only call us beautiful because it’s the polite thing to say. They think we’re too stupid to notice their pitying eyes, their choked up throats, the disgust warbling in their voices. They couldn’t name a single reason why we sexxxy if they tried.
So here, in handy list form that the internet loves so much, is why we’re so hot. Hotter than everyone else. Including you.
Allison and Brianna
- Lacking cheekbones turns the face into this perfect oval shape, without any unsightly bony bulges popping out everywhere.
- There’s usually an overbite or lips of drastically different sizes. This, combined with the tucked in chin makes her look like she’s constantly leaning in, lips puckered, waiting for a kiss.
- The tucked in chin blends into the neck and creates the illusion of a slender, swan like neck.
- The oft kilter, slightly unblanced nature of the face, where one eye is slightly more droopy than the other makes it so that in different lights, in different shadows, when she does something small like put on glasses or use a different shade of makeup it wildly changes how her face looks. You aren’t just getting one face, but a multitude of different, equally beautiful faces all wrapped into one. This is probably why Treacher Collins relationships tend to last a hell of a long time. There is no boredom. If the partner is in the mood for a change he/she can just ask her to put on glasses, or angle the bedside lamp a different way and boom, its like a whole new person rolls and sweats and fucks in bed with them.
- When they smile, the mouths prominence overwhelms the rest of the cute, tiny face and you can’t help but be swept away with her.
- The eyes. God the huge, sparkly, beyond adjective eyes. So big you can see every shade of emotion, every flick of lust when she’s turned on, every lance of anger when you’ve done something stupid, and they will hold you in thrall, you will be a slave to every flicker in them, trying to elicit that bright glow, that radiates like the some sort of large bright object and cools like the moon.
- Her eyes. Again. The eyes are the bedrock of her hotness. Their droopiness makes her heavy lidded lusty looks even more disarming, her sadness more overwhelming, her joy as it bursts out of her boiling corneas enveloping you so much more affecting than normally sized eyes. Careful, my son, my lady, if you enter their domain.
- Ok. One more time, because eyes are the anchor to all hotness, not just hers. Even safe, classical beauties. Marilyn Monroe’s sultry, preening gaze. Bridget Bardot’s wide eyed come hither. Whether guys realize it or not, what draws us to women, even sometimes subliminally, is her eyes. Shit, man, every facial feature of Treacher Collins accentuates and draws out the eyes. The flat, cheekboneless cheeks create a distracionless frame so your gaze naturally drifts to her stare. The chin disappears into the neck drawing your eyes upward. Her wider forehead removes any distractions of hair so there thou art, staring, mutely, in a kind of abstract, enlightened wonder that only comes once in a lifetime to monks.
- If you’re one of the lucky ones born with properly functioning perception and you’re able to see past the cataracts of societally acceptable sexiness, her beauty becomes even more lovely, like some treasure or valuable painting locked away in your basement and that no one else looks at or understands. You become a hotness hipster, revelling obscure beauties that no one else has heard of. If everyone saw their supernatural sexiness and they became universally accepted as beautiful (as they should be) something would be lost. Her weird, un-fucking-forgettable beauty, totally outside the realm of mainstream sexiness, is part of her appeal.
- The messy beauty of their faces soar into your nerve endings like a punk rock song, or the haunting high pitched wails of Delta blues, where you hear every crackle and flaw in the recording tape, and a constant hiss of the record player. Without the flaws, the messily fingered power chords or the scratchy bottle neck slides, it wouldn’t be as eerily beautiful. So beautiful you wonder how it could even exist on this planet in the first place. They must have sold their souls to the devil at the crossroads to get such unearthly beauty and shit, shit, you feel yourself tingling all over, and you want to break things or make out with things, her.
Greg and Ezra
- Yes, I’m using myself as an example of a hot guy. Kiss my ass.
- See those bags under my eyes? Those are my ears. When I was a kid my eyes didn’t shut properly. There was a few millimeters open even when I went to sleep, so all my dreams took place in whatever room I was in. This had to be fixed for some reason. The doctors lopped off a chunk of my ears and grafted them under my eyes. So now, they act as both a dam, keeping all my REM hallucinations inside my skull and as a physical metaphor for seeing music everywhere I look.
- The rugged handsomeness of a guys with Treacher Collins is simply unmatched. He could be some nerd, who could recite the stats of every hero in Overwatch or a docile, well mannered doctor with a thin blue line flag flapping outside his porch yet Treacher Collins molded his face into a leather bound biker, who flicks cigarette butts at cops and has Gadsden flag serpents tattooed on his neck.
- And my oh my, how we age well. With every passing year as age and wrinkles and wordly wisdom are etched on our face we become that much more rugged.
- In the midst of all the lumberjack hotness, that unbearable level of biker trash sex appeal, our eyes poke through, looking droopy and somehow sad. They bespeak a vulnerability makes our hard edged faces seem attainable, like there’s something more lurking under the surface of badassery, a visual representation of the mystical bad boy with a heart of gold that girls chase after.
- The same mutability of the girls face also applies to the guys. He’s capable of twisting his lips into a snarl that will empty your bowels yet at the same time whipping out a beaming smile that melts your heart so that you want to take his face in your hands, gaze in wonder at how so many different shades of handsomeness can be compacted into a single skull, then plant a long lingering kiss on his lips. Then you tug at his belt loops and you both begin panting heavily and I’ll stop before this turns into erotica. I’ll just imagine it. Like you are. You’re welcome.
So then. I’m sure most of you still don’t get it. You think this was just an exercise in sunny optimism. It wasn’t. It was an indictment of all the shallow minds, splashing around in the shallow, kiddy end of Sex Appeal Pool. I get that nothing will change how you see us. Your brain has limited capacity. But if you ever find yourself cowed by pity, sad that people with Treacher Collins look odd and ugly or you feel morose that we aren’t ordinary and don’t blend into the herd, just accept that you don’t get it. That you will never understand our beauty and you, YOU, are the worse because of it. Know that you will never ever be as attractive or unique looking as us. That you will blend into the hordes of similar looking people forever. You will never ever stand out. So, bitch sit down. Be humble.