Here's my gripe with witheringly old people: they are an ugly reminder of mortality.

As you know, up until I was 12, I had to sit for breakfast and dinner (and lunch in summer) just across my ancient senile grandfather. His bottom lip hung like a decaying maggot, pale and slimy. The remaining teeth were crumbling away.

He ate with disgusting slurps and smacking of his lips, ropes of saliva hanging down his chin. I gagged, desperately turning my face away and praying for the hands on the clock to crawl forward so I could go.

I couldn't leave the table early because that meant disrespect towards my elders.

His skin was mottled and criss-crossed with spidery veins. He was blind, his eyes thankfully hidden behind a pair of shades....I had seen his pale white orbs only once but it was enough. Haunting images of a pale ghost with opaque eyes still visit my dreams.

He could barely move out of the wheelchair--my mother had to wait on him hand and foot. I think he was also suffering from dementia at the time, the kind that left you in a catatonic state. No reaction, no words. Just existing in eternal mute mode, drooling like a moron.

The morning after he died, I enjoyed my breakfast for the first time....

The older and more dressed up old people are, the worse. It is simply pitiful the way they cake up those deep fallows in their faces in a ridiculous attempt to hide the fact they're sagging skeletons. But they can't hide anything. The world derides them.

Young Forever? More like Losers Forever.

Because no one can ever be as beautiful as me. And I intend for it to stay that way. Other models don't stand a chance beside my godly visuals.

But I had overlooked one, small thing.

Her.

My rival.

She's here. She's back.

Yes I know. Crazy.

She's driving everybody crazy. Everyone is falling for her.

The moment I clapped eyes on her...I didn't know what to do. What to say. I felt my heartbeat for the first time in a long while, like it had suddenly come alive.

She really had come back to me, after ten long years. Like in a fairy tale....

And then I looked at her, really looked at her. And I noticed her flawless face, those pouting heart-shaped lips, that chiselled nose, those eyebrows, her gorgeous figure...everything...

Everything about her was, and still is, if not more, perfect.

She had blossomed into womanhood.

It was then that I had my epiphany: she can't stay.

Only I can be perfect. I am THE Mr Worldwide Handsome. No man nor woman may stand beside me, to claim my right.

But she is threatening to do just that with her stunning visuals.

What to do?

Again, I feel myself falling for her, attracted to her, like a fly ensnared in a spider's web.

I see her talking with her managers, I get the urge to punch the men so badly.

I see her laughing with the reporters when they ask her questions, and I wish to rip them apart limb by limb with my bare hands when she gives them smiles.

I am on the verge of screaming when I see the male models posing seductively and touching her milky, flawless skin.

And it's a reminder for me every time I am driven to work: her eyes on the billboards and along the walls just pull you, hypnotising you to Look. Straight. Back. At. Her.

Her eyes burn into me and I don't know whether it frightens or excites me.

I want to announce to the world she's mine, so nobody touches her. Mine. Mine. Mine.

But I cannot because she is not.

I can't keep up with this game for longer before I go mad. I can feel it.

I want her, but at the same time she has to go. This irrational conflict is tearing me apart.

It makes my head hurt, and it's been only 5 weeks since her arrival, but already, people are paying attention, because she is, truthfully, a very alluring model.....