Friday, September 2, 2011

Things I Love and Hate About my Physical Appearance

I’m feeling pretty hungover today and, consequently, pretty bad about myself. What am I doing with my life? Why do I drink so much? What’s wrong with me? Who are my real friends? Why can’t I get my shit together? Why am I so hideously ugly????????

The last question took over my entire being moments after I attempted to pop a particularly cruel neck zit. Rather than producing the desired white ejaculate, it imploded upon itself as the big ones so often do. Now it looks like I have a small tumor directly under my jaw line. Good.

As I pulled my hand mirror away from my face to better examine the full horror of what I had done, I noticed how greasy my bangs were. Then how my nose was so red. Then how bloated my face looked. Before long the tears came and I slammed the mirror shut and screamed “shut up!” at no one in particular. I allowed myself an indulgent 10 minute melt down before deciding I needed to suck it up (also, the tears made me look even more repugnant). That’s when I decided that I needed to quickly make a list of all the things I like about my physical appearance before I ran screaming to the nearest McDonald’s in a fit of self loathing (I’m probably still going to Donnies later, but whatever).

Obviously an “I’m So Pretty LOL!!” list is not remotely interesting or tolerable to anyone besides me and possibly my grandma, so I included the Hates for good measure / entertainment purposes. Here we go:

LOVE: my small feet. I mean they’re just so fucking adorable! Everyone knows girls with big feet have big vajessicas. It’s just science.

HATE: my chubby cheeks. A boy in my grade 7 class once looked me straight in the face and said “you’re kind of pretty, but you have fat cheeks.” Cue 15 years and counting of silent devastation. When I look in the mirror, no matter how much of a “hot” day I’m having, the FIRST thing I see is a sea of ham.

LOVE: my lips. Not only are they succulent and full, but if there was a colour for sex, they would be that colour. That’s not even getting into their functionality* but this isn’t the time or place. (*Editor’s note: I first wrote “functionability”. It had that red “you’re a retard” line underneath it and I couldn’t figure out how it was misspelled until google told me that it’s not a word. Brain make fun party today!).

HATE: my hair. Jesus Lord don’t even get me started. I’ve written about this shit before so I’ll spare you the full details, but in a nutshell, I believe my parents should be shot for making a human who has to go through life with nothing but two wispy sheets of Kleenex on either side of her head. Try making an updo for a wedding out of air and two spider webs. You can’t.

LOVE: the shape of my legs. True, it would be better if they were longer and cellulite-free, but they’re strong as a hard deen and my thighs still don’t touch when I stand, despite the fact that every other part of my body has been slowly expanding over the past couple of burrito-infused years.

HATE: the colour of my eyes. They’re exactly the colour of poo.

LOVE: my teeth. I didn’t suffer through two years of head gear for nothing, bitch.

HATE: my ever increasing double chin. From the right angle and with the right amount of photoshop, it’s hardly noticeable! But most of the time I can feel it laughing at me. “That’s right, eat that piece of pie, just slide it right on in here!” Sometimes I can actually feel the donuts I just ate hanging out in my deec (short for “D.C.”). I’m going to have to make peace with the deec though, because there is nothing that can stop me from eating all the things.

LOVE: my Ts. Look, I’ll just show them to you one time, and you’ll know.

HATE: my beer gutlet (not quite a gut, but getting there). WHY WILL YOU NEVER LEAVE? I already know that no matter how much exercise (ha!) and eating right (what!) I do, it will never go away, because I will never stop drinking beer. The only way I can disguise it is by stuffing myself into something with a super tight waist, but then it just shifts into a muffin top and I can’t really breathe properly or move at all. If I got paid for the time I’ve spent sucking in I’d be a fucking millionaire by now.

Ok! I feel a bit better. Now to tackle the emotional problems I have. That should only take 7, maybe 8 years tops. I’ll keep you posted.


1 comment:

  1. (1) I'm never calling McDonald's anything but Donnies every again - let's be honest, we're close enough at this point that it would be weird if I didn’t have a nickname for McD’s. Wait.

    (2) Speaking of nicknames, I once had a zit in the middle of my forehead that was so much of its own entity that I nicknamed it my unicorn horn.

    (3) Size 6 feet in the house! Small vajajas for life!

    (4) A boy in my 7th grade class once called me a “carpenter’s dream” (flat as a board) and later said that I was an “airhead” and encouraged me to “fly away” (with my full head of air presumably). I’m just saying, balloon cheeks v. no brain or boobs.

    As always, quit your day job and entertain me for life!