Midnight Ramen
Once, I met I man named Andy. He took me on a magical train ride and made me play with plush bushes of card decks. Then he jibbled at stuff, whatever that means. He bought me a pet hot air balloon named Sally, and Sally and Danny, Andy’s cross between a chihuahua and a parakeet, barfed all over the sunrise. Fruit Roll-ups were had by all, but not before we poured milk in the Siamese river and sang the Banana Boat sunscreen jingle. Then Santa came and we boogie-oogie-oogied ’til we just couldn’t boogie no mo’. Then Andy’s pants ripped so we went to Fabric Hospital, but it was scary in there so Sally chomped a chimp face and panda bears ran wild. All that glittered was mold.
Zit Zapping
Why do we have to continue to suffer with acne, even when we’re out of high school? I have a monstrous red bump on my chin that will not go away, no matter how hard I try to get rid of it.
At 0300 hours, I launched Toothpaste Warfare on the enemy force occupying my chin. After sleeping on it, I found that the toothpaste mission had failed. There were no survivors. Except the pimple. Which I didn’t want to survive. Okay. I think I’ve made my point.
I then turned to commercialism to solve my blemish woes. I watched a couple of commercials to see which act of false advertising impressed me the most. All I got out of it were these two messages:
Proactiv: “Oh em gee, I’m a celebrity! I have a teeny tiny pimple on my face but it’s sooooo bothersome! So I use Proactiv to get rid of it! Exclamation point!”
Neutrogena: Appears to be only for teen girls. I’m no longer a teen, and I’m a tad too old to be part of the High School Musical generation, so I wasn’t really feeling the airbrushed-Vanessa Hudgens thing. Vanessa Hudgens does nothing more than make me want to move to a secluded cave and forget modern pop culture. She can’t sell me acne face goop.
Both commercials use celebrities to help pitch their products. Neither convinced me to buy their products.
Back to World War Toothpaste, then.
CHINVASION
It’s huge, it’s gelatinous, it’s blood-thirsty, and it’s coming to a laptop screen near you! It’s… it’s… my chin!
I’d like to think that everyone has their own “bad angles” when it comes to photographs. I’d like to think that, but the reality is this: when faced with a camera, my chin grows to proportions other chins can only dream of.
When I look in the mirror, I see one chin. In most pictures of me, I see one chin. My loving (and lying) boyfriend has assured me that I indeed have only one chin.
If this is true, then why did these happen?
