The male gaze.

Nobody takes photos of me, or particularly often.  It's just that you see some people, and their glamorous lives still shot, in places you'd like to be, good company.  Not me.  The camera adds ten pounds of beauty to already beautiful people.  But us men of statue prone to jerky elasticity and gaunt resignation freeze frame like, well, our jerky gaunt selves.  It's just that, I've always hated beautiful people.  Hate is a strong word.  But so is love, and beautiful people seem to find it falling over themselves regularly.  With regularity.  It's a burden, it's a whip, it's an ungazing eye.  But that eye is a camera sometimes burning indelibly those standards which we value onto paper.  It's like seeing the host of NPR for the first time, for me, for me.  It's like, I'm not how you'd think I look and I often get confused for other people.  Someone asked me if I hate my job today, and I said yes, but what I really meant was, I think you're terrible, this job is fine.