Out of a million women, perhaps a thousand are extraordinary in all aspects possible. They carve out their own destiny, take no shit from anyone, are extraordinarily talented in varied fields, and top it off by being pulse-alteringly beautiful.
But for every thousand such girls, only one will ever meet someone who can do justice to her description and come up with things like ‘What can you say about a twenty-four year old girl who died?’ or ‘She should have been posed against a background of sea-clouds, painted masts and wheeling gulls.’
This is just one of the ways in which life is unfair.
(No, this is not about anyone in particular. Just something I came up with when I was depressed with my inability to complete a short story in eighteen months, and also the fact that whatever there was of it was so cliche-laden.)