The perfect ones. The beautiful ones. The right ones, the just ones, the nobles ones. The ones who never break down crying in restaurants, who never do anything in secret they would be ashamed of. The normal ones. The healthy ones. The ones who always plan ahead. The content ones. The happy ones. The ones who work hard and reap the benefits, who brush and floss after every single meal. The well-adjusted ones. The popular ones. The ones who never disappoint, the little boys who do grow up to be president. The lucky ones. The ones with perfect skin and perfect teeth and perfect figures. The ones who want what they have and have what they want.
They don’t exist. The ones posing as them are even more fucked up than you.