You turned sixteen yesterday. Your father gave you those new boots you wanted, your mother got you a car, and your favorite uncle sent a dusty old lamp. Dissappointed at first, you had rubbed away the grime before school only to find a genie living within.
It was the best birthday present ever.
You've used up two wishes
already--one was used ridding you of your allergies, the other to grant you all
the wealth you could ever need. Unlike in the movies, there have been no
adverse side-effects. No consequences. Just joy.
You're on your way to true
happiness.
"One more wish," the
genie reminds you, and there's only one more thing you want.
You close your eyes and bow your
head.
"I wish I was beautiful,"
you whisper.
"So it is done," the
genie promises with the clap of his hands. There's a chill gust of wind and the
lights go out in the bathroom. You stand there in silent darkness for a long
time before finally opening your eyes and turning your face upward to the mirror.
You blink. Reach up and touch your
face. Blink again. You can't believe it. You're on the verge of tears.
You had wished that you were
beautiful; the genie had said was done.
And not a single thing has
changed.
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