Over the twenty eight years I’ve graced this planet, there are certain phrases that I have become all too familiar with. And they all have a common theme.

Are you okay?

Smile, it might never happen.

Cheer up.

I thought you hated me when we first met.

What’s wrong?

Yes. I am referring to the shrew-like expression my face naturally assembles. But it’s only in the past few years that the condition has become globally recognised.

If your face resembles a hungry primate, strangers feel compelled to point out your affliction. When you are, in fact, completely fine. But in a bitter twist of irony, hearing 87 people tell you to smile in the space of a week isn’t the usual substance that provokes a pearly-white beamer.

Just because the ends of my mouth dip 14 degrees souther than everyone else, my gaze is somewhat lacking and my frown lines are as defined as most people’s hair partings, it doesn’t mean on the inside I’m not planting sunflowers.

Ever thought that my eyebrows naturally lack emotion or have secret magnetic poles that pull one toward the other? Or that my smile is, quite frankly, bone idle? Of course you didn’t.

And thus, I give you the non-medically facial state of Chronic Bitch Face.