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mother always said i’d be very attractive when i grew up, when i grew up. “different,” she said, “with a special something and a very, very personal flair.” and though i was eight or nine, though i was eight or nine, though i was eight or nine, i hated her. now, “different” is nice, but it sure isn’t pretty. “pretty” is what it’s about. i never met anyone who was “different” who couldn’t figure that out. so beautiful I’d never lived to see. but it was clear, if not to her, well, then… to me… that … everyone is beautiful at the ballet. every prince has got to have his swan. yes, everyone is beautiful at the ballet.bebe, a chorus line, “at the ballet”
