The Heuristic Self: On Persona, Identity, and Character

Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth.”
— Oscar Wilde

Identity is an illusion—but a necessary one. It’s a shortcut. A heuristic, evolved not for truth but for coherence. We reduce ourselves and others to fixed traits to preserve continuity—psychological, social, narrative.

Audio: NotebookLM podcast on this topic. (Direct)

Audio: NotebookLM podcast on this topic. (Spotify)

In the latest post on RidleyPark.blog, we meet Sarah—a woman who survives by splintering. She has three names, three selves, three economies of interaction. Each persona—Sarah, Stacey, and Pink—fulfils a role. Each protects her in a system that punishes complexity.

Identity Is Compression

Cognitive science suggests that we don’t possess a self—we perform one. Our so-called identity is assembled post-hoc from memory, context, and social cues. It’s recursive. It’s inferred.

We are not indivisible atoms of identity. We are bundled routines, personae adapted to setting and audience.

From Performance to Survival

In Needle’s Edge, Sarah doesn’t use aliases to deceive. She uses them to survive contradictions:

  • Stacey is desirable, stable, and profitable—so long as she appears clean and composed.
  • Pink is a consumer, invisible, stripped of glamour but allowed access to the block.
  • Sarah is the residue, the name used by those who once knew her—or still believe they do.

Each persona comes with scripts, limitations, and permissions. Sarah isn’t being dishonest. She’s practicing domain-specific identity. This is no different from how professionals code-switch at work, or how people self-edit on social media.

The Literary Echo

In character development, we often demand “depth,” by which we mean contradiction. We want to see a character laugh and break. Love and lie. But Sarah shows us that contradiction isn’t depth—it’s baseline reality. Any singular identity would be a narrative failure.

Characters like Sarah expose the poverty of reduction. They resist archetype. They remind us that fiction succeeds when it reflects the multiple, the shifting, the incompatible—which is to say, the real.

What Else Might We Say?

  • That authenticity is a myth: “Just be yourself” presumes you know which self to be.
  • That moral judgment often stems from a failure to see multiple selves in others.
  • That trauma survivors often fracture not because they’re broken, but because fracturing is adaptive.
  • That in a capitalist framework, the ability to fragment and role-play becomes a survival advantage.
  • That fiction is one of the few spaces where we can explore multiple selves without collapse.

The Missing Link

For a concrete, narrative reflection of these ideas, this post on RidleyPark.blog explores how one woman carries three selves to survive three worlds—and what it costs her.

Jesus Wept, Then He Kicked Bezos in the Bollocks

There’s a curious thing about belief: it seems to inoculate people against behaving as though they believe a single bloody word of it.

Audio: NotebookLM podcast on this topic.

Case in point: Jesus. Supposed son of God, sandal-wearing socialist, friend of lepers, hookers, and the unhoused. A man who — by all scriptural accounts — didn’t just tolerate the downtrodden, but made them his preferred company. He fed the hungry, flipped off the wealthy (quite literally, if we’re being honest about the temple tantrum), and had the gall to suggest that a rich man getting into heaven was about as likely as Jeff Bezos squeezing himself through the eye of a needle. (Good luck with that, Jeffrey — maybe try Ozempic?)

And yet, here we are, two millennia later, and who is doing the persecuting? Who’s clutching their pearls over trans people, sex workers, immigrants, and the poor daring to exist in public? The self-proclaimed followers of this same Jesus.

You see it everywhere. In the subway, on billboards, on bumper stickers: “What would Jesus do?” Mate, we already know what he did do — and it wasn’t vote Tory, bankroll megachurches, or ignore houseless veterans while building another golden tabernacle to white suburban comfort.

No, the real issue isn’t Jesus. It’s his fan club.

They quote scripture like it’s seasoning, sprinkle it on whichever regressive policy or hateful platform suits the day, and ignore the core premise entirely: radical love. Redistribution. Justice. The inversion of power.

Because let’s face it: if Christians actually behaved like Christ, capitalism would implode by Tuesday. The entire premise of American exceptionalism (and British austerity, while we’re at it) would crumble under the weight of its own hypocrisy. And the boot would finally be lifted from the necks of those it’s been pressing down for centuries.

But they won’t. Because belief isn’t about behaviour. It’s about performance. It’s about signalling moral superiority while denying material compassion. It’s about tithing for a Tesla and preaching abstinence from a megachurch pulpit built with sweatshop money.

And here’s the kicker — I don’t believe in gods. I’m not here to convert anyone to the cult of sandal-clad socialism. But if you do believe in Jesus, shouldn’t you at least try acting like him?

The sad truth? We’ve built entire societies on the backs of myths we refuse to embody. We have the tools — the stories, the morals, the examples — but we’re too bloody enamoured with hierarchy to follow through. If there are no gods, then it’s us. We are the ones who must act. No sky-daddy is coming to fix this for you.

You wear the cross. You quote the book. You claim the faith.

So go ahead. Prove it.

Feed someone. Befriend a sex worker. House the homeless. Redistribute the damn wealth.

Or stop pretending you’re anything but the Pharisees he warned us about.

The Ship of Theseus Is Not a Paradox

Video: Plutarch: The Ship of Theseus

The Ship of Theseus is philosophy’s favourite parlour trick: swap out the planks of a ship one by one, and ask in your best furrowed-brow voice whether it’s still the same ship. Then, for added spice, reassemble the discarded parts elsewhere and demand to know which version is the “real” one. Cue the existential hand-wringing and smug undergrad smirks. Oh, how clever.

Audio: NotebookLM podcast on this topic.

But here’s the thing: there’s no paradox. Not really. Not unless you buy into the fantasy that identity is some immutable essence, handed down from the gods like a divine barcode. The whole thought experiment hinges on the absurd presumption that something has a fixed, singular identity across time and context, a quaint metaphysical hobby horse that falls apart the moment you look at it sideways.

Let’s be clear: in the realm of language and proto-psychology – the crude, squishy scaffolding of thought that predates syntax and survives long after it – there is no such thing as a fixed “same.” That’s a linguistic illusion, a parlour trick of grammar and nominal categories. Language wasn’t built to hold truth; it was built to herd humans into consensus long enough to survive the winter.

In practice, we use “same” the way we use duct tape: liberally, and with complete disregard for philosophical coherence. The “same” ship? The “same” person? The “same” idea? Please. Ask your hippocampus. Identity is not a container; it’s a hallucinated continuity trick, maintained by memory, narrative, and sheer bloody-minded stubbornness.

The real kicker? Our precious linguistic tools aren’t built to reflect reality. They’re built to reduce it. To chop up the infinite mess of experience into palatable little mouthfuls of meaning. So when we come to the Ship of Theseus with our dull-edged conceptual knives, what we’re really doing is asking a bad question with inadequate tools. It’s like trying to measure wind speed with a sundial.

The paradox isn’t in the ship. It’s in the language.

And no, you don’t need to patch it. You need to sink it.

★★★★★ Notes from the Undiagnosed

A Love Letter to Inertia, Spite, and Self-Sabotage

Dostoevsky’s Notes from Underground is less a novel and more a spiritual colonoscopy — invasive, squirm-inducing, and uncomfortably revealing. The narrator? A prickly, obsessive proto-incel with a superiority complex and the emotional range of a trapped mole. But good god, he’s brilliant.

Audio: NotebookLM podcast on this topic.

The first half is all grandiose spleen-venting — a scorched-earth takedown of reason, utopia, and the basic idea that people want what’s good for them. The second half, though, is where the magic happens: watch a man humiliate himself in real time and then monologue about it like it’s a TED Talk. By the time he’s insulting Liza while simultaneously begging her to save him, you don’t know whether to laugh, cry, or throw the book across the room. I did all three.

If you’ve read Tolstoy’s The Death of Ivan Ilych, you’ll see the contrast. Tolstoy’s man realises too late that his “good life” was a sham; Dostoevsky’s never even gets that far. He knows from the start, and that’s the tragedy. The one dies of repression; the other lives by gnawing on his own leg.

I’ve cross-posted a longer treatment on Ridley Park’s Blog.

Rick Beato, Everything is a Remix

Oh no, not that again. As if we’ve all been composing from scratch, untouched by the grubby hands of history.

Audio: NotebookLM podcast on this topic.

I’m not simping for AI, but let’s have it out, shall we? Rick Beato—bless his fretboard-fingered soul—says AI-generated music sucks. And sure, some of it does. But here’s the punchline: most human-made music sucks too. Always has. Always will. The fact that an algorithm can now churn out mediocrity faster than a caffeinated teenager with GarageBand doesn’t make it less “art.” It just makes it faster.

I’m a bit chuffed that Rick’s channel removed my comment pointing to this response. I didn’t want to copy-paste this content into his comments section.

Video: Rick Beato discusses AI-generated music

The Myth of the Sacred Original

Newsflash: There is no such thing as originality. Not in art. Not in music. Not even in your favourite indie band’s tortured debut EP. Everything we call “creative” is a clever remix of something older. Bach reworked Vivaldi. Dylan borrowed from the blues. Even Bowie—patron saint of artistic reinvention—was a pastiche artist in a glittery jumpsuit.

What AI does is make this painfully obvious. It doesn’t pretend. It doesn’t get drunk in Berlin and write a concept album about urban decay to mask the fact it lifted its sound from Kraftwerk. It just remixes and reinterprets at inhuman speed, without the eyeliner.

Speed Isn’t Theft, It’s Efficiency

So the AI can spit out a passable ambient track in ten seconds. Great. That’s not cheating, it’s progress. Saying “it took me ten years to learn to play like that” is noble, yes, but it’s also beside the point. Horses were noble too, but we built cars.

The question isn’t how long did it take? but does it move you? If the answer is no, fine. Say it sucks. But don’t pretend your human-shaped suffering gives your song a monopoly on meaning. That’s just gatekeeping with a sad sax solo.

The Taste Problem, Not the Tech Problem

Let’s not confuse our distaste for bland music with a distaste for AI. Most of the pop charts are already AI-adjacent—click-optimised, algorithm-fed, and rigorously inoffensive. If you want soul, seek out the obscure, the imperfect, the human, yes. But don’t blame the machine for learning its craft from the sludge we fed it.

AI is only as dull as the data we give it. And guess what?
We gave it Coldplay.

What’s Actually at Stake

What rattles the cage isn’t the mediocrity. It’s the mirror. AI reveals how much of our own “creativity” is pattern recognition, mimicry, and cultural reinforcement. The horror isn’t that AI can make music. It’s that it can make our music. And that it does so with such appalling accuracy.

It exposes the formula.
And once you see the formula, you can’t unsee it.

Long Live the Derivative

So yes, some AI music sucks. But so do most open mic nights. Creativity was never about being wholly original. It was about saying something—anything—with whatever tools you had.

If AI is just another tool, then sharpen it, wield it, and for heaven’s sake, stop whining. The artist isn’t dead. He’s just been asked to share the stage with a faster, tireless, genre-bending freak who doesn’t need bathroom breaks.

Book Review: The Death of Ivan Ilych by Lev Tolstoy

I’ve just finished reading The Death of Ivan Ilych.

Let’s get this out of the way: yes, Ivan dies at the end. It’s right there in the title, you absolute muppet. But what Tolstoy does in this slim volume – more novelette than novella, really – is turn the slow demise of a terminal bore into a scathing indictment of bourgeois mediocrity.

Audio: NotebookLM podcast on this topic.

Set in the 1880s, but eerily modern in its spiritual bankruptcy, this is less a period piece and more a mirror held up to our Ikea-staged lives. Ivan Ilych is, in short, that guy. You’ve met him. You’ve worked with him. He follows the rules, gets the job, buys the drapes, marries the woman, and climbs the career ladder with the zeal of a drowning man clambering up a waterfall. And for what? A living room indistinguishable from the next man’s. A life that “resembles others like itself” to such an extent that it may as well have been copy-pasted from a Pottery Barn catalogue.

I’ve only read Anna Karenina prior to this, and no, I’ve not tackled War and Peace because I have things to do and a lifespan to manage. I prefer Dostoyevsky‘s psychological probing to Tolstoy’s social panoramas, but Ivan Ilych pleasantly surprised me. It’s Dostoyevskian in its internal torment, and compact enough not to require a support group.

The genius here is not the plot – man gets ill, man dies – but the emotional autopsy performed in slow motion. Ivan’s illness is banal, his symptoms vague, but the existential unravelling is exquisite. He is confronted not just by mortality but by the crushing realisation that his entire life was a lie curated for public consumption. If Instagram had existed in imperial Russia, Ivan would have filtered the hell out of his parlour furniture.

And yet, at the very end, there’s a kind of grace. Having failed at life, Ivan, miraculously, succeeds at dying. Not in the tragic-heroic sense. But in accepting the abyss, he transcends it. Or at least stops flinching.

If you’ve ever wondered what your carefully curated CV and your “neutral-tone” home decor will mean on your deathbed, this book is your answer: absolutely nothing. Read it and despair – or better yet, read it and reconsider.

The Ship of Theseus: Identity by a Thousand Replacements

Let’s start with a thought experiment, because all good existential crises do.

Imagine a ship – Theseus’s ship, to be precise. After a storied career of heroic sea-faring, it’s put on display in a glorious Athenian dockyard. But as time passes, the planks rot. So, bit by bit, they’re replaced. A new mast here, a fresh hull panel there. Eventually, every single part has been swapped out.

Here’s the philosophical conundrum: Is it still the same ship?

Audio: NotebookLM podcast on this topic.

And if you think you’ve got that sorted, hold on. Imagine all the original pieces were saved, and someone reassembled them in a warehouse across town. Now there are two ships. One with the name, the continuity, the dockside real estate. The other with the original lumber and sails.

Which one is the real Ship of Theseus?

The paradox gnaws at our sense of identity. Is continuity enough? Does memory trump material? When everything is replaced – structure, function, even personnel – what makes a thing still that thing?

Now apply that question not to a ship, but to a rock band. A corporation. A country. Yourself.

That’s where things get fun. And slightly horrifying.

I was recently served a video on Facebook, algorithmic ambrosia for the nostalgic mind, showing the band Foreigner performing one of their chart-groping hits from the ‘70s. Polished, crowd-pleasing, competent. And utterly fake.

Not one founding member in sight.

They weren’t bad, mind you. Just… someone else. A Foreigner cover band trading under the original name, like a haunted jukebox stuffed with licensing contracts.

This, friends, is the Ship of Theseus with a tour schedule.

And it’s not just bands. IBM, once the king of typewriters and tabulating machines, now sells cloud services and AI consultancy. Walgreens, which began as a soda fountain and friendly neighbourhood chemist, now sells LED dog collars and pregnancy tests under buzzing fluorescent lights.

These aren’t companies. They’re brands in drag, corporate necromancers chanting the old names to animate new bodies.

But why stop there?

America isn’t America. Not the one of powdered wigs and musketed revolutionaries. No Founding Fathers™ roam the marble halls, only interns, lobbyists, and PR-tested careerists impersonating ideals they no longer understand. Britain? Please. The Queen is dead, and so is the Empire. France has revolted so many times that they’ve essentially speed-run regime change into a lifestyle brand.

And let’s not get too smug. You aren’t even you anymore, not really. Cells replace themselves, beliefs crumble and reform, memories rot and rewrite. You’re a psychological Foreigner tribute band, just with more trauma and less pyrotechnics.

So here’s the rub: everything persists by pretending. That’s the deal. Names survive, structures remain, but the guts are swapped out, piece by piece, until we’re clapping along to something we no longer recognise, wearing merch from a band that no longer exists.

And we call it continuity.

NB: After a dozen Midjourney prompts, I decided to stop and use this one. Ships of Theseus are as rare as centaurs.

Jordan Peterson: Derivative, Disingenuous, and (Hopefully) Done

I don’t like most of Jordan Peterson’s positions. There – I’ve said it. The man, once ubiquitous, seems to have faded into the woodwork, though no doubt his disciples still cling to his every word as if he were a modern-day oracle. But recently, I caught a clip of him online, and it dredged up the same bad taste, like stumbling upon an old, forgotten sandwich at the back of the fridge.

Audio: NotebookLM podcast on this topic

Let’s be clear. My distaste for Peterson isn’t rooted in petty animosity. It’s because his material is, in my view, derivative and wrong. And by wrong, I mean I disagree with him – a subtle distinction, but an important one. There’s nothing inherently shameful about being derivative. We all are, to some extent. No thinker sprouts fully-formed from the head of Zeus. The issue is when you’re derivative and act as if you’ve just split the atom of human insight.

Peterson tips his hat to Nietzsche – fair enough – but buries his far greater debt to Jung under layers of self-mythologising. He parades his ideas before audiences, many of whom lack the background to spot the patchwork, and gaslights them into believing they’re witnessing originality. They’re not. They’re witnessing a remixed greatest-hits album, passed off as a debut.

Image: Gratuitous, mean-spirited meme.

Now, I get it. My ideas, too, are derivative. Sometimes it’s coincidence – great minds and all that – but when I trace the thread back to its source, I acknowledge it. Nietzsche? Subjectivity of morality. Foucault? Power dynamics. Wittgenstein? The insufficiency of language. I owe debts to many more: Galen Strawson, Richard Rorty, Raymond Geuss – the list goes on, and I’d gladly share my ledger. But Peterson? The man behaves as though he invented introspection.

And when I say I disagree, let’s not confuse that with some claim to divine epistemic certainty. I don’t mean he’s objectively wrong (whatever that means in the grand circus of philosophy). I mean, I disagree. If I did, well, we wouldn’t be having this conversation, would we? That’s the tragicomedy of epistemology: so many positions, so little consensus.

But here’s where my patience truly snaps: Peterson’s prescriptivism. His eagerness to spew what I see as bad ideology dressed up as universal truth. Take his stance on moral objectivism—possibly his most egregious sin. He peddles this as if morality were some Platonic form, gleaming and immutable, rather than what it is: a human construct, riddled with contingency and contradiction.

And let’s not even get started on his historical and philosophical cherry-picking. His commentary on postmodern thought alone is a masterclass in either wilful misreading or, more likely, not reading at all. Straw men abound. Bogeymen are conjured, propped up, and ritually slaughtered to rapturous applause. It’s intellectually lazy and, frankly, beneath someone of his ostensible stature.

I can only hope we’ve seen the last of this man in the public sphere. And if not? Well, may he at least reform his ways—though I shan’t be holding my breath.

Molyneux, Locke, and the Cube That Shook Empiricism

Few philosophical thought experiments have managed to torment empiricists quite like Molyneux’s problem. First posed by William Molyneux to John Locke in 1688 (published in Locke’s An Essay Concerning Human Understanding), the question is deceptively simple:

If a person born blind, who has learned to distinguish a cube from a sphere by touch, were suddenly granted sight, could they, without touching the objects, correctly identify which is the cube and which is the sphere by sight alone?

I was inspired to write this article in reaction to Jonny Thmpson’s post on Philosophy Minis, shared below for context.

Video: Molyneux’s Problem

Locke, ever the champion of sensory experience as the foundation of knowledge, gave a confident empiricist’s answer: no. For Locke, ideas are the products of sensory impressions, and each sense provides its own stream of ideas, which must be combined and associated through experience. The newly sighted person, he argued, would have no prior visual idea of what a cube or sphere looks like, only tactile ones; they would need to learn anew how vision maps onto the world.

Audio: NotebookLM podcast on this topic.

This puzzle has persisted through centuries precisely because it forces us to confront the assumptions at the heart of empiricism: that all knowledge derives from sensory experience and that our senses, while distinct, can somehow cohere into a unified understanding of the world.

Empiricism, Epistemology, and A Priori Knowledge: The Context

Before we dismantle the cube further, let’s sweep some conceptual debris out of the way. Empiricism is the view that knowledge comes primarily (or exclusively) through sensory experience. It stands opposed to rationalism, which argues for the role of innate ideas or reason independent of sense experience.

Epistemology, the grandiloquent term for the study of knowledge, concerns itself with questions like: What is knowledge? How is it acquired? Can we know anything with certainty?

And then there is the spectre of a priori knowledge – that which is known independent of experience. A mathematical truth (e.g., 2 + 2 = 4) is often cited as a classic a priori case. Molyneux’s problem challenges empiricists because it demands an account of how ideas from one sensory modality (touch) might map onto another (vision) without prior experience of the mapping—an a priori leap, if you will.

The Language Correspondence Trap

While Molyneux and Locke framed this as an epistemological riddle, we can unmask it as something more insidious: a failure of language correspondence. The question presumes that the labels “cube” and “sphere” – tied in the blind person’s mind to tactile experiences – would, or should, carry over intact to the new visual experiences. But this presumption smuggles in a linguistic sleight of hand.

The word “cube” for the blind person means a specific configuration of tactile sensations: edges, vertices, flat planes. The word “sphere” means smoothness, unbroken curvature, no edges. These are concepts anchored entirely in touch. When vision enters the fray, we expect these words to transcend modalities – to leap from the tactile to the visual, as if their meanings were universal tokens rather than context-bound markers. The question is not merely: can the person see the cube? but rather: can the person’s tactile language map onto the visual world without translation or recalibration?

What Molyneux’s problem thus exposes is the assumption that linguistic labels transparently correspond to external reality, regardless of sensory apparatus. This is the mirage at the heart of Locke’s empiricism, the idea that once a word tags an object through experience, that tag is universally valid across sensory experiences. The cube and sphere aren’t just objects of knowledge; they are signs, semiotic constructs whose meaning depends on the sensory, social, and linguistic contexts in which they arise.

The Semiotic Shambles

Molyneux’s cube reveals the cracks in the correspondence theory of language: the naïve belief that words have stable meanings that latch onto stable objects or properties in the world. In fact, the meaning of “cube” or “sphere” is as much a product of sensory context as it is of external form. The newly sighted person isn’t merely lacking visual knowledge; they are confronted with a translation problem – a semantic chasm between tactile signification and visual signification.

If, as my Language Insufficiency Hypothesis asserts, language is inadequate to fully capture and transmit experience across contexts, then Molyneux’s problem is not an oddity but an inevitability. It exposes that our conceptual frameworks are not universal keys to reality but rickety bridges between islands of sense and meaning. The cube problem is less about empiricism’s limits in epistemology and more about its blind faith in linguistic coherence.

In short, Molyneux’s cube is not simply an empirical puzzle; it is a monument to language’s failure to correspond cleanly with the world, a reminder that what we call knowledge is often just well-worn habit dressed up in linguistic finery.

A Final Reflection

Molyneux’s problem, reframed through the lens of language insufficiency, reveals that our greatest epistemic challenges are also our greatest linguistic ones. Before we can speak of knowing a cube or sphere by sight, we must reckon with the unspoken question: do our words mean what we think they mean across the changing stage of experience?

That, dear reader, is the cube that haunts empiricism still.

Ugly Women

This Isn’t Clickbait. I Asked MidJourney for “Ugly Women”. Here’s What It Gave Me.

Let’s clear the air: I did it for science. Or satire. Or possibly just to see if artificial intelligence would have the audacity to mirror the cruelty of its makers.

Audio: NotebookLM podcast on this topic.

I queried MidJourney with the phrase ugly female. What did it return? An aesthetic pageant. A digital Vogue spread. If any of these faces belongs to someone conventionally labelled “ugly”, then I’m a rutabaga in a Dior suit.

Yes, there’s one stylised rendering of Greta Thunberg in full Norse Valkyrie scowl mode – but even then, she looks fierce, not foul. The rest? AI-generated portraits so telegenic I half-expected to see #spon in the corner.

Let’s be clinical for a moment. As an American male (with all the culturally indoctrinated shallowness that entails), I admit some of these aren’t textbook 10s. Maybe a few clock in at a 6 or 7 on the patriarchy’s dubious sliding scale. But if this is ugly, the AI has either broken the aesthetic curve or been force-fed too many episodes of The Bachelor.

Here’s the thing: AI is trained to over-represent symmetrical faces, wide eyes, clear skin – the usual genetic lottery wins. And yet, when asked for ugly, it can’t help but deliver catalogue models with slightly unconventional haircuts. It doesn’t know how to be truly ugly – because we don’t know how to describe ugliness without revealing ourselves as sociopaths.

Once upon a time, I dated a model agent in Los Angeles. Japanese by birth, stationed in LA, scouting for a French agency – the kind of cosmopolitan trifecta only fashion could breed. Her job? Finding “parts models.” That’s right – someone with flawless teeth but forgettable everything else. Hands like sculpture. Eyelashes like Instagram filters.

We’d play a game: spot the 10s. She’d nudge me, whisper “her?” I’d say, “Pretty close.” She’d shake her head. “Look at that eye tooth.” And we’d dissolve into laughter.

We were mocking perfection. Because perfection is a con. A trick of lighting, contour, and post-production.

So, no. I don’t think any of the women in the AI’s response are ugly. Quite the contrary – they’re too beautiful. AI can’t show us “ugly” because it’s been trained to optimise desire, not reflect reality. And our collective understanding of beauty is so skewed that anything less than runway-ready gets sorted into the rejection bin.

If these women are ugly, what exactly is beautiful?

But maybe that’s the point. We’ve abstracted beauty so far from the human that even our ugliness is now synthetically pleasing.

What do you think? Are any of these faces truly ugly? All of them? Let me know in the comments – and try not to rate them like a casting director with a god complex.