UGLINESS IS EVIL

There’s a sad pigeon limping across the patio like it just lost a custody battle and as punishment to itself flew threw a wood chipper but was too stubborn to die.

It’s missing half its feathers, one eye is twitching like it’s buffering, and its left wing is dragging behind it like a bad Tinder date. It stops. Stares at me. Doesn’t blink. I love pigeons normally, they’re supposed to be beautiful and this one was hideous.

That’s what happens when you give up.

Not just in life. In discipline. In dignity. In beauty.

That bird used to fly. Now it begs for crumbs in a city that stopped believing in mirrors.

I’m sitting at a café by the ocean. My usual spot. Corner table. Right edge of the patio. Half sun, half shade. The kind of table you sit at when you know you look good from both angles. The coffee in front of me tiny, golden like my hair, still steaming like it’s grateful to exist. My surfboard leans against the wall behind me I’m sick of drug addicts stealing my boards out of my truck, sand still crusted to the wax from this morning’s ride.

I’m wearing black linen pants that whisper when I move, no belt because I don’t need to sinch what already fits perfect. My white Ralph Lauren shirt is open at the top creases intentional, sleeves rolled twice, cuffs kissed by the salt in the air. I smell like bergamot and effort. Like a man who knows how many reps it takes to look effortless.

The sun hits my jaw like God’s spotlight.

And this pigeon this creature of collapse is staring at me like we’re equals, it won’t even look away.

This café is built into a stone wall that overlooks the street. You can see the ocean, and you can feel it, down the hill, past the palms, humming behind the buildings like a sleeping giant. The breeze has weight. The kind that wraps around your shoulders instead of slapping you across the face. Like a good girl. It’s a sacred kind of wind. The kind of wind that smells like salt and clean women.

My girl is next to me in a yellow sundress writing something in a notebook with a cracked spine. She smells like oranges and optimism. There’s a man two seats down in a suit jacket with no socks, chewing on a straw like he’s got childhood trauma and a lunch meeting. Someone’s dog is asleep under a table. Classical music is playing. The Good ol’ Ludwig. I’m sure the shop owner plays this to keep the du rag pant sagging sideways hat people out.

It’s perfect.

And then the people walk in.

The first one is a man in a shirt that says “feminist ally”. He’s got a mustache that looks like it’s dying of depression. Hair in a greasy topknot. Glasses too big for his face. His girlfriend or handler has tattoos that look like they were drawn by a sad fourth grader. Her jawline is fading like her hope. She’s wearing a tank top with a message on it I refuse to read. Oh wait I think they’re just friends. Hard to look at, my eyes search for something else.

Behind them, a couple. Both obese. Matching Crocs. Tank tops. Loud. She’s yelling about birth control and how it’s making her feel weird. He’s eating a granola bar like it betrayed him.

Then comes the girl with the green hair and the “Gender Is a Prison” tote bag. She’s holding an iced matcha like it’s a weapon and scowling at the sun. She looks like she smells like wet chalk and poor life decisions. Her knees knock together when she walks skin all red around the knees and that pimply white look. every step sounds like she’s trying to stomp out beauty itself.

then a man no, a shape in pajama pants and slides, wearing a hoodie in 80 degree weather. Eyes dead. Shoulders slumped. Chest caved. You can tell he hasn’t said a true sentence in six years.

I look down at my coffee. Still warm. Still waiting. Still sacred.

And I think

We’re being hunted by the ugly.

Ugly is no longer unfortunate.

It’s a movement.

Ugliness is everywhere nowadays. ugliness of the soul. The kind that ferments. The kind that leaks. The kind that spills out onto your skin, your smell, your posture, your politics, your dating profile.

It’s the woman who hasn’t been chosen in five years so she writes articles on why attraction is a social construct.

It’s the man who never learned to lead, so now he “redefines masculinity” by posting TikToks about crying on the floor at Planet Fitness.

It’s the girl who dyed her hair purple and got five nose piercings and tells you she’s “expressing herself” when in reality she’s just building armor for a war she already lost.

It’s the guy who smells like pizza rolls and tweets about “dismantling beauty standards” while jerking off to girls who still have them.

This is spiritual rot.

And it’s being marketed as self-love.

Plato warned us.

He said the philosopher-kings the rulers of the ideal society should not only be wise, but beautiful. Not as decoration. Not as eye candy. But because beauty is a sign of order. Harmony. Symmetry. Self-respect. The outer proof of an inner discipline. He wrote that people of lesser stock produce uglier children. He called them “second-rate half-breeds.” Said philosophy should be practiced by those of true pedigree not bastards. Not mutants. Not people who treat their body like a landfill.

Harsh? Sure.

True? Undeniably.

Because your face is a confession.

You think you can hide who you are?

Try doing it when you’re tired. When your guard’s down. When you haven’t posed or filtered or put on your Customer Service voice.

People see it.

The bitterness. The envy. The porn addiction. The years of slouching. The gut full of excuses. The darkness you carry like a second skin.

It’s in your laugh. It’s in your knees. It’s in your aura.

Ugly people love communism. Communism is a political view based in envy.

It’s what you get when people who were never picked decide no one should be picked. When people who hate winners decide to ban the scoreboard.

Communism is envy in a trench coat. It’s not about fairness it’s about leveling the playing field with a flamethrower.

You think the guy with abs, money, a beautiful girl, and a fast car wants equality?

No.

He wants freedom.

He wants beauty.

He wants heaven on Earth built by earned effort.

And the people who can’t build it want to make it illegal.

You want to see real evil?

Look in the face of someone who gave up and wants you to too.

It’s the girl who calls you shallow for not dating someone 150 pounds heavier than your type.

It’s the guy who says “capitalism is toxic” while sucking down four bags of Cheetos in his mom’s basement.

It’s the friend who mocks you for waking up early, reading books, eating steak, and dressing like you matter.

These people aren’t victims.

They’re agents of decay.

They want to erase beauty not because it’s fake but because it’s real.

And real things remind them they’re not.

But I still believe.

In form. In flame. In symmetry. In silence. In sweat. In fasting. In suits that fit. In espresso that burns. In prayer. In pull-ups. In women with soft eyes and strong faith and long hair. In men with hands that know both war and worship. In jawlines earned. In books underlined. In linen that drapes and doesn’t cling.

I believe in being beautiful not for the world’s approval but as a reflection of the divine.

And I will not lower my standard for your feelings.

I will not dim so you can pretend to glow.

I will not rot just because you did.

So while you’re posting your fifth selfie this week begging strangers to affirm your self-hatred dressed as confidence

I’ll be here.

At the café.

Espresso in hand.

Sun on my skin.

Peace in my posture.

Truth in my spine.

And linen on my body like a robe of earned quiet.

You had the same 24 hours I did.

You chose entropy.

I chose elegance.

And now your face shows it.

UGLINESS IS EVIL.

And I refuse to lie about it.

Look at what is beautiful and your world changes.

-Day