Goofing on cosmetic surgery martyrdom and Justin Bieber’s toolface
If I look like Justin Bieber, I’ll live like Justin Bieber, goes the thinking of a sick, dumb animal.
When humans are psychologically backed against a wall, they often do silly things reminiscent of the crazed stumble of mad cow disease. Narcissism is like mad cow, in that infected animals’ brains and spinal cords get wonky after eating too much of themselves.
At 33 years-old, “songwriter” Toby Sheldon is one such sick, dumb animal, thanks to his diseased missteps in pursuing the surgeried likeness of Justin Bieber’s pout. He may not have succeeded in turning his mug into a copy of The Bieber’s, but he has broken the Narcissist Richter Scale and become this month’s poster boy for GET CHARACTER OR BECOME ONE.
Perhaps it’s unfair for me to pick on one of God’s mixed up creatures, one whose likely next move is stumbling in a circle until it dies. But God commanded me to write this blog, and I can’t be blamed for self-poisoning narcissists who shudder, shake, and stagger madly before my oncoming truck.
Maybe the rule of thumb should be that, if you’re such a delusional cosmetic surgery pigeon that becoming a laughing stock is a minor consequence, you should be entitled to special insurance coverage or perhaps your own island residency. I favor the island, a zero-liability environment where you can immolate yourself with a can of gas, invent a chainsaw radio, or stagger delusionally off a cliff, all free from the legal or social judgments of others.
Don’t get me wrong, Toby Sheldon-Bieber is still a person: it’s just that he’s about as empty a vessel as you could get without breaking the laws of physics. Or is that mean? Is it wrong to make fun of somebody so devoid of substance that they choose someone equally empty to emulate?
Toby’s somebody with love to give, things to be happy about, and talent to share. I’m sure he’s terrific with a ball of yarn. But then I look at what he’s done to himself and I feel lucky. Not lucky because I know I’d never do such a thing, but because I know myself well enough to believe I’d eat a gun barrel before heading down this particular path.
Not that I’m advocating suicide here; I just want to know what of Toby Sheldon Toby Sheldon is getting to know by doing this. It’s a safe assumption his doctors didn’t care enough to ask. And determining the psychological state of a patient before approving the surgery is one thing: shouldn’t some thought have gone into what his psychological state will be 10 years from now?
But speaking of results…
The thing about moderate-to-excessive cosmetic procedures that I just don’t get is why or how its electors fail to notice the resulting uniformity. With the exception of the super freaks, they all tend to look the same: puffy cheeks, narrow rat eyes, inhumanly smooth facial derma, and lips less attractive than 3rd-degree burn pus. It leaves the rest of us feeling pity and judgment, not admiration.
For instance, in the millisecond before I laughed at Sheldon’s before-and-after photos, I actually felt sorry for the guy. Okay, okay, so it was room temperature empathy immediately cooled by the hydrant of humor, but it did register. How could it not? Sheldon’s face will never be what it was, and without an island on which to install him, it’ll never blend in. Poor fool.
In the real world, life experience is just beginning to carve its way into the expressions of those in their early- to mid-30s. Sheldon not only doesn’t look like Justin Bieber, his face will never even be capable of showing the regret, growth, or wisdom he may yet gain from surviving such a truly dread-inducing choice.
I’m admittedly limited in my charity, though, because another thing I can’t get my head around is the rate at which we’re cranking out people who martyr themselves in this way. What horrible forces are at work when self obsession collides with this level of celebrity fixation?
And you wanna talk excuses? How ’bout this:
Toby Sheldon deliberately chose to look like someone who acts out publicly with little or no consequence. It’s one thing to wish we were a muscular or heroic person, some intellectually admirable achiever with leadership qualities or courage. But it’s another thing entirely to permanently and surgically alter oneself to look like a naughty man-baby who is rewarded by the media for immature, irresponsible, and discourteous behavior. To me, that’s a heavier indictment on society than on looneys who copycat the looks and lives of Hollywood tools.