Fact: my chest has long been a controversial subject. Regarded by some ancient peoples as a symbol of flawless divinity, many have coveted the pale pectorals that denote my torso. I never wished to be blessed with the divine looks of a sparkling vampire. [Note that my daily garb consists mostly of modest jeans and the humble Aloha shirt. After all, with great beauty, comes great responsibility].

Such responsibility cannot be taken lightly; when I saw the photos displaying the aptly-built construct that is my body outside the chapel, fear gripped my innards in anticipation of the chaos that would break loose. After all, handsomeness is like any commodity: it’s regulation or lack thereof dictates the fate of society.

The cause of my relative nakedness exists as a result of a cultural miscommunication that would take several pages to explain. Suffice it to say that I removed my Indiana Jones shirt because of its luxurious canvas – apparently it’s too fabulous for such a base activity as brick fashioning. As I focused on my masonry, I soon became oblivious to the paparazzi’s photographing of my  glorious abdomen.

This whole situation upset the current status quo. Women began to collapse in the Chapel’s vicinity, unable to take my raw resemblance to Michelangelo’s David. My fellows in gender glared with malice, and I now know how One Direction feels every day. Though it may seem like a glamorous position, the reality of my circumstances crushes my soul. My isolation from those less gorgeous than I takes its toll.

To be clear, I am not ashamed of my condition. I simply want to alert the general population that until the images are removed, this community must maintain a semblance of peace and order, despite the anarchy that hath broken from its shackles. I am aware this will require a great deal of willpower and no small amount of tenacious dedication from the populous at large.