Day 48. Humiliation.

When you see me do I not have eyes? Can I not see? Must I use my eyes solely as a well of tears? Surely I must, for once again it appears to be open season on my feelings. Some ham fisted teenaged ruffian, in a moment when she was not shaking down freshmen for candy, chose another type of violence. Emotional violence. Is not every mirror I walk past not enough penance for my crime that is simply called aging? Apparently not. Children survive on emotions. Surely, if I have not beauty, certainly I still have emotion? Apparently a soul vampire, has found me and is feeding on my emotions, and to catalyze the negativity she has produced this:

I feel now as the enigmatic model who sat for Leonardo Da Vinci must have felt as he recreated her beauty in his masterpiece, The Mona Lisa. My only criticism is that this drawing is too, lifelike and feels uncanny, and also the eyes are free of tears, and tears are surely the blood of the broken heart.

For comparison, here is a photo taken of me this afternoon.