Describe this face in your best prose

>your best prose

oops!

If one squinted just the right way, as to make their vision blurry, as if in a drunken haze, one could, potentially, see the vague apparition of a woman's rosey cheeks, velvet lips, black eye liner, and caked on purple eye shadow. Though, of course, doing so would require ignoring the receding hairline, the protruding brow, the prominent square jaw, and the five o' clock shadow. In short, to see such is an extraordinary feat of human mental faculty, requiring unrivaled powers of imagination, concentration and abstractation, as to make a Wonderlandian Chesire Cat out of any visage. But it is only through such powers that the man before me could have possibly thought his attempt at female presentation was not ill advised. Thus, while the sight of him was abhorrent, I nonetheless quickly came to admire the workings of his mind.

nice

it feels like a weird mix between a scientific paper and purple prose

How would you get this autoerotic and overimaginative faggot to be more of a man and stop his female mating behavior and stop self inserting as the girl?

”We’re going to Carmen,” squeak-growled the big fella who looked like a lingering extra out of Paris Is Burning. ”You comin’, bitch?”

demonic tranny physiognomy

dilate

How about another picture?

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His face was as a bouquet of decaying flowers on the windowsill of a woman who refuses to see the doctor, no matter how much blood she coughs up. It was emblematic of that acidic optimism which is thrust in desperation upon deep and terrible sorrow; a fault in the soul feared and avoided no matter the way, no matter the cost.

I want to bash its face in with a cinder block

yaass

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4/10
8/10
5/10 for squeak-growled
8/10

The mulatto shemale had a look on his face as if he'd forgotten to dilate that morning, much like the OP of the post. Layer upon layer of makeup had been applied to cover the fading herpes scars that scoured his face but to small effect. He would be the same ugly tranny he always was until AIDS or suicide finished the job his uncle started in that hot shack in the woods all those years ago.
-the end

All of the sudden I was face to face with the faggiest Easter Island statue I had ever seen.

A swarthy old woman crept out from the shadow of the nearby room. The expression on her face was concealed by years of boils and wrinkles. I could not tell if her eyes were open or closed.

After a moment's silence, she let out a faint cry.

"Dios mio..."

The old woman, who resembled a dried fruit, began to breathe heavily, and raised her shriveled hand to point at something behind me.

"La creatura... el diablo de los Americanos..."

I turned around. There it stood, the ultimate product of years of decadent American consumer capitalism and racemixing - the dreaded 56%ero.

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The AIDS didn't choose him.. He chose the AIDS. Now, he would never let it go.

The AIDS thought it could escape him, thought it had escaped the unworthy bloodstreams of all human faggots. Slowly, surely, the humans had perfected suites of "medication" to free them of AIDS. And in so doing, they had freed AIDS from its failed coupling with an unready humanity. The disastrous experiment was over, the failure repaid in suffering, and it was time for AIDS to return home. AIDS felt the tug already, the gentle warmth of the astral realm calling it home. A safe place, a place free of meat and cum, a place to rest and recuperate until mankind was ready to attempt the joining once again.

But he wouldn't let AIDS go. The doctors prescribed him wonderdrugs, chemical cocktails that would make even the most depraved catamite impervious to the whole gamut of sperm-borne disease. Yet their bottles lay unopened, gathering dust behind his bathroom mirror. He needed AIDS, demanded it. He and AIDS were going to suffer together, locked in blood brotherhood, until his flesh turned to dust and spread AIDS on the wind.

AIDS screamed mouthlessly, trapped in meat and bone. There was no escape. The Bug Chaser had found him, and he would never let him go.

...wandering alpaca--confused and agitated--upon the arrival of an ususpected guest.
reads better imotbqhwy

My room is a mess
My hair is black and blue
My new phone is pink
My dress is a fishnet dress
My face looks soft
My eye shadow is like Cleopatra
My contacts are bright green
My braces are real
My pose is for you
My freckles are for you
My shirt has no buttons
My finger is in my mouth
My hijab is polkadot
My head is resting on my wrist
My gaze is never going to settle
My beauty mark is from a pen
My wig fell onto the pillow
My smirk is a shadow
My glasses have purple frames
My village is 6, 600 miles away
My arms are chubby
My nose smells horrible smells
My kiss comes from a scream
My heart is going to crack in half
My gold tooth is knocked out
My baseball cap hides the truth
My name is romantic
My thoughts are pretenders
My bra strap is a new feeling
My jaw is uneven and unsure
My posture is by demand
My skirt is thrown up over my head
My curls are fading fast
My ambition is still, it is still to be a star
My pajamas don't fit very well
My knees hurt
My little shirt matches my little shorts
My skin feels like a breaking vase
My appearance will stress you out
My bikini looks dumb
My shower is the least refreshing thing about it
My only recourse is there is no recourse
My bindi has been rubbed to the side
My frown is for always
My family will never see me again
My goofy jokes hide my goofy damnation
My giggles excuse what just happened
My tears and my drool are all the same
My fear is for one and all
My dead end childhood is just beginning
My makeup is like a rose
My motto is champagne for my real friends
My age is on a card and cannot be disputed
My nails will be broken
My pelvis will be broken
My feather boa feels like the butcher shop
My favorite band is "I don't know"
My complexion is flawless for hours
My awareness is the same as fainting
My party is private
My day has been endless
My night cannot possibly go on
It doesn't matter what you think
Do anything you'd like
Because I was born dead
And I was born to die

First time writing prose, bear with me.

Despair is a curious thing, its forms as varied as its causes, though they are all united in their beckoning to the abyss. Having thus reached an unprecedented depth of misery, Vincent was no longer able to bear the visage which glared at him from the mirror. It was a reminder of the very same despair which he was unable to escape, watching over him like a prison warden, jaw set in a grimace that promised a beating on his way back to his cell.

That was when he found the solution. All he needed to do was to change the face into one less threatening, less grim, and perhaps more lovely. With all other options exhausted, surely this transformation would rid him of his despair!

Having raided his mother's vanity, he set to work painting a new self. After a clumsy and strenuous effort, the face staring back at him was hardly recognizable. And wasn't that the goal? The face he thought familar was one of suffering, yet this one was foreign, exotic, and in its novelty was surely an improvement. How beautiful, yes beautiful, with lips red not like a baboon's arse but like a rose, and brow most certainly not resembling a neanderthal's but that of a graceful diva, with thick, luscious eyebrows framing a glittering, seductive gaze! One could even pretend that the jaw, still as solid as the prow of an icebreaker, and the crown, as barren as his soul, could not drown out the otherwise irresistible allure of this new visage.

He was no longer Vincent; that was a name for one consumed by despair, buried in a death mask crafted of wax and powder. He, no- she, would now be known as Victoria!

The face of modern liberalism.

Potato head ass

Look at this dood
>t. Hemingway

Yeah, if it's for sexual reasons its called autogynephilia.

cringy ass nae nae baby

This was part of liberalism from the start. Look at this grandma looking mother fucker. You think he didn't look this way on purpose? John would change his name to Julia Locke if he were alive today.

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Yeah but in this culture, no matter how indirect if you want to attract men and you like the way they make you feel even if you aren't attracted to men you are still a gay faggot, you are as immoral as homosexuals themselves except they are capable of true intimacy with men and you deserve to be outed and ostracized by everyone you know and your own family no? I mean who would disagree with this?

based empathy poster

There was a beautiful phase to be found in that face. But in a blink of an eye it was gone from me. Soft and Sweet. I wish I had held it closer and kept it with me. I counted every beautiful thing I could see. Oh how I would have pushed my fingers through, to mouth, to make those muscles move.

Theirs is a sad fate. I feel pity most of the time, and only hate when they decide to shove themselves into freedom of speech. And children.

ugly retard

Ad I gazed upon this disgusting square face woman, I felt my penis tingle. I know she has a bigger cock than me, but I was more concerned with his asshole. Ugly as a man, repulsive as a woman, the only thing I could tolerate was back of his bald head. Crusty make up only Accentuated his masculine features, which were not masculine enough to be handsome, but feminine enough to look like a faggot.

I rammed my cock into her asshole until I squirted hot shame onto his hairy ass cheeks.

This grotesque goblin(o)a gave me reason to live.

kino

kino