20. THE UGLY DUCKLING 2

We aren’t good at explaining things to children. Especially not hard things like how nothing is fair or means anything but, you know, keep trying anyway.

This isn’t anywhere close to being the hardest thing you can come up against before your eleventh birthday, but I was a weird-looking kid. Real weird-looking. The kind of weird-looking where it’s negligent to not address it.

Nobody knows what to say to an ugly kid.

You aren’t supposed to tell them the truth. What if they give up?

Instead, you’re supposed to tell them about the Ugly Duckling.

I don’t want to be too hard on Hans Christian Andersen because he isn’t around to defend himself, but I have a difficult time believing that Hans Christian Andersen was doing the best he could and trying his hardest when he wrote The Ugly Duckling. The guy was a maniac. Do you know how many stories he wrote? 3,381 stories. Do you really think he thought about any of them for more than four seconds?

I’m not accusing Hans Christian Andersen of anything, but, as an ugly child, I found The Ugly Duckling to be an insufficient answer to my questions. And I wouldn’t be surprised to find out he wrote it when he was tired and didn’t want to deal with anything.

And Hans Christian Andersen just wasn’t in the mood to deal with that shit. He was like, “Who knows, Felicitybelle. They can go fuck themselves.”

But Felicitybelle wanted a hopeful future for those horrible, unsightly children. She stared at Hans Christian Andersen with a disappointed face until he felt obligated to take action.

And Hans Christian Andersen was like, “Okay. The duck is ugly.”

And no one added anything to the discussion until 1939 when Robert Lewis May wrote Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. Or at least that was the main alternative presented to me.

And Robert Lewis May was like:

I also apologize to Robert Lewis May, but that is some pretty convenient logic. What is that supposed to teach me about fitting in with my peers? “Hang in there, kid—maybe there’ll be some insane coincidence where your exact defect is the only solution, and everyone will be forced to accept you based on your utility”?

What do I do if there isn’t? What do I do if I’m useless and ugly forever?

I’m probably not the best person to be doing this, but sometimes you have to be the change you want to see in the world, and if you can’t be beautiful enough for everybody, the next best option is animal stories.

Dear Children:

Once upon a time, there was an ugly frog.

Yes. It was the ugliest frog in the world.

Anyw—

Why is anything the worst anything.

It is in our nature to compare things. We should not feel bad about this, but we should also be aware of how silly it is to look at a frog and think we know where it ranks on the Best Frogs of All Time scale. Why do we even have that scale? They’re frogs. Let them be.

I think what I’m trying to say is: there’s no real way to tell who the ugliest frog is, and it doesn’t particularly matter, but, if it will be more exciting for you, we can say this is the ugliest frog.

You’ve heard stories before, so right now, you’re probably thinking, Yeah, but that’s just where the frog starts. Surely the rest of the story is about the frog’s journey to success.

No. That is not where the story is going. First of all, there is no such thing as a successful frog.

Oh, I’m sorry—does the frog have to be beautiful and successful before we can talk about it? Is that how the world works? We only get to talk about frogs who are amazing? Guess what, children—this isn’t even a real story. It’s just a ruse to teach you a lesson about life.

I’m glad you asked, children.

As far as we can tell, life does not have a point.

There is no need to be frightened. Yes, an invisible stranger just told you that life is pointless, but, much like this story, life doesn’t need a point. I mean, it can have one if you want. Go ahead—pick one. Whatever you want. Count all the rocks. Get faster at singing. Be as nice as possible. Grow 500 pumpkins and put them in a pile. But there’s nothing that requires life to have a point.

Children… I’m trying my absolute best to explain the meaning of life to you. It’s honestly sort of disturbing that you’re stuck on the frog still. Do you know the frog? Does the frog need to be okay for you to be okay?

What if I don’t know what happened?

The frog isn’t real, okay? I made it up.

There is no frog, life is pointless, and nobody knows what’s going to happen. I’m very sorry to inform you of this, but if you grow up only reading happy stories where you find out the answers to all your questions, you will be scared and confused and probably die in a dumpster fire. It is better to accept the utter futility of things as early as possible and save yourself the struggle.

Sorry.

I’m really sorry.

Hello again, children. Once upon a time, there was an ugly frog.

And the world isn’t fair, so it didn’t grow up to be pretty or successful—it just stayed how it was.

Then one foggy Christmas Eve, the frog realized that everything is equally ridiculous. And it went sledding because why not.