A Pimple in Time

It just seems rude that my face is capable of having wrinkles AND a pimple.

Really, Nature? Blow me.

Elbows Guy III: The Reckoning

As I mentioned, Elbows Guy emailed me back after I’d told him his comment bugged me.

Here’s what I’d said, between other things we’d been discussing, one of which was a second date:
“You tell me if you end up free Tuesday, and I’ll tell you if my ashen elbows and I can join you. Sound good? (Can you tell I took that far too seriously and now wonder if you’re a. Mean, or b. Will think/say things about the rest of my body if ever you see it?) :)”

His response, also among other topics:
“You definitely are reading too much into the elbows thing. It was just a simple observation since your skin is really soft and your elbows were a little rougher (I suspect from resting them on your desk while in hardcore writing mode). It’s the little details like that which I find fascinating in people, especially women, since they usually have a story to tell.

“Your (a) vs (b) question is actually the same question – ‘is this guy a judgey asshat who’s going to make fun of me and my quirks in order to make up for his own insecurities and fragile ego?’ And the answer to that is no. I have a very thick skin and will occasionally say something without thinking how someone not similarly thick-skinned will take it, but I’m not a judgey asshat. I have a sneaking suspicion that was not the case with one or more of the guys you have recently dated.”

Ahem…

1. I pay a nice lady to be my therapist. I don’t need you and your degree from the Lifetime Movie School of Emotional Trauma.

2. I HAVE projected from previous men I’ve known, but I’m usually self-aware enough to recognize it. (Like when you called me “Miss” the other day and my brain spasmed because that’s what That Guy called all the faceless, interchangeable women in his harem — THAT was projecting. I knew it, and I shut it down.)

3. I don’t lean on my desk while I’m writing. My elbows are just shitty. (And way to double down on telling me so.)

4. “I’m not a judgey asshat, but I’m gonna point out your faulty sentence construction.” (I know he’s right. Shut up.)

Sometimes my brain goes all River-Tam-batshit-banana-pants-at-the-end-of-Serenity — swinging weapons around in a circle to fight off whoever comes near her. Whenever I’ve stuck that feeling out because, “I might be overreacting,” I really can’t remember a time my brain was wrong.

Buffy the Dry Skin Slayer

Elbows Guy emailed me back yesterday about the Elbows thing, and when I didn’t answer, he emailed again this morning to ask if I was “still alive?”

No, I am not alive, sir. My elbow skin overtook the rest of my body and I collapsed in a pile of ash like one of the slain vampires on Buffy.

(It’s Monday. I’m irritable. His initial response will be reported in detail later today, because it borders on brilliance.)

In which an OkCupid user OKs my face.

Today’s OkStupid intro message: “You got pretty eyes n nice smile go with it :)”

1. Pfft, I knew that. I have my bad body image days, but I actually like my eyes and smile. If I hate my face, it’s usually my nose or my skin.

2. Go with…what, exactly? Having those features? Yeah, I pretty much have to — they’re on my face. Unless I get color contacts and cosmetic dentistry, these are the eyes and smile I’m gonna roll with.

3. Do you mean I should go with YOU? Where? Back to third grade to learn grammar? No, thanks, Billy Madison. (Alternate joke: “Where, the 7-Eleven on Broadway? Do you even know my name, screwboy?”)

“Sometimes you have to show a little skin…”

My earlier post reminded me that I should finally see a dermatologist, just for a generalized old-lady exam to see if any of my adorable freckles are going to kill me later.

I’m on the website looking at the doctors’ photos and qualifications, and a few of them are men. One is a hot man.

Sorry, no, much as I’d love to take my clothes off in front of you, it’s not gonna be when I’m speckled with skin allergies and potentially cancerous freckles.

Tell ya what — let one of the other doctors in your practice fix those things, and also hook me up with some Botox, and THEN I can strut around your office naked, just for fun. Cool? Cool.

“Drugs, man, capital D, Drugs.”

The doctor put me on a new drug*, and told me repeatedly that if I notice a rash to contact her immediately.

Seriously, you guys, am so goddamn sexy I don’t even know how y’all deal with me.

This is especially fun because there’s always SOME reaction somewhere on my skin. I already had eczema (or SEXzema — amirite, fellas?), and my skin reacts to perfumes, soaps, scented feminine products (THAT? Was a great day.), dryer sheets, certain fabrics, shaving, and men’s facial hair when they kiss the BEST places**, so… really, what’s one more?

*Some days I miss being on Abilify — it was SUPER fun feeling like I was ALWAYS over-caffeinated, getting shit done LIKE A BOSS, and not giving a baker’s fuck about anything, including if I slept ever again. Alas, not a sustainable lifestyle. Or so they told me.

**I almost always find this reaction worth it. Fine, whatever, I’ll get psoriasis — just keep your mouth on my neck. It will end well for us all.

Sexy, sexy llamas.

The oddest things make me feel sexy.

I’m wearing a shirt with llamas on it, but the back of it is scoop-cut lower than shirts I’m used to, and my hair is clipped up, so I have my neck and, like, five inches of back/shoulder exposed, with an occasional peek of bra strap, but I totally feel like I could make men do my bidding.

My llama bidding.

Shut up, don’t judge.