So Over it. By it I mean Me. And By Me I Mean You.
by The Window Shopper
I’m having a total moment right now and thought I would share the hideously disfigured events that transpired this morning in a text to my dad:
8:08 am: Dad, like this is my actual face right now (+picture of actual face). I’m having a total skincare meltdown. Can you put money in my account for a facial? I can’t face the world with this face. the end.
8:09 am: No really. I’m locked inside– trapped. The prisoner of an ugly visage. I die. I die. I die.
8:11 am: Help.
8:12 am: Fine. I’m going Bobolit on my face just so I can get to work blemish free. THANKS. for nothing.
8:14 am: Just called the paramedics. Haven’t heard back slash there is no money in my account. Something is obviously wrong. with you.
It’s been two cups of Somalian virgin blood, four derm visits, three masks and five days of looking like Cameron Diaz and I’ve had it. Like really had it. If I was someone who could pull off acne, like say a Proactiv rep, this wouldn’t be a problem but I’m not. And so it is. By day three I wind up looking like a methy prostitute, and then I start acting like one. Never leaving the house. Getting super emotional and crazy paranoid that everyone is staring at me, even though I’m home alone. I spiral. It happens.
And like right now all I have to say is wtf face? I’m really over you. I’m also really over today. tomorrow. and most likely all of next week. Dad, I’m especially over you. Unless you’re face down in a ditch somewhere with Paco which, although unfortunate is still not as unfortunate as my face right now.
