BAnD aID(EA)

Apart from watching "The Real Housewives of New York City/Orange County/New Jersey", I have another bad habit - and that is picking my zits. Gross, I know, but I hate bumps on my face and somewhere in my delusional mind, I think by popping it, it'll magically disappear - like all the chocolate around the house. However, I've had a pretty stubborn one for the past month. It hid itself so well that I gave up and didn't bother touching it for a month. However, 4 days ago, it grew weak and l I had it wrapped around my (soaped, washed, clean) fingers - with a piece of tissue paper of course. It was such a stubborn zit that I couldn't get it all out in a day. Results? My cheek is now officially red, angry, swollen and raw from this bacteria bump. 


This all happened on Friday and I thought it would be better by Monday when I have to face the world outside of Facebook. Didn't happen. And my anxiety for it to heal quicker by applying creams just dried my skin up more. So, not only is it red, angry, swollen and raw, feel free to add flaky to that shit list. 


I woke up Monday morning with two options. Skip classes or go for plastic surgery. I wasn't allowed either, so I came up with a brilliant idea. I found clear square mini band aids in the cabinet and decided to apply cream and cover it up to save my classmates from the horror that is my face while 'treating' it at the same time. The only reason why I didn't mind doing this was because this volcano was situated on the inner side of my left cheek, so my hair would be able to conceal it nicely if I walked with my head tilted slightly to the right like a retard.


Here's the problem. As I was walking in to school, the wind started billowing gently like I'm auditioning for the role of Asian Pocahontas. Because I was walking against the wind, my face was exposed and my retard walk failed. My patch has seen daylight! I started walking like a new kind of retard. The 'paranoid on LSD' kind by lifting the folder all the way up my face like if I can't see them, they can't see me.


I kept telling myself that I only have two classes today and to just get by and leave. Doesn't sound too difficult, now does it? Wrong. The fire alarm went off while I was waiting for my second class. Ignoring it crossed my mind -high possibility that it is only a fire drill. As I see kids scampering off toward the exit, I felt compelled to drag my feet and face out the door.


So there I was, standing in the middle of a fucking field with the WHOLE school. Of ALL days. All I wanted was to get through the day with just two classes by camouflaging a patch on my face with a walk I so carefully crafted.


Thanks Murphy. Look, I'm sorry I stole your boyfriend. I guess we're even now.

Say What?

It was c.1995 BTA (Before Tits & Ass) when I was fighting that awkward prepubescent stage. My idea of an outfit worthy to the public eye is baggy jeans big enough to fit a European man and my father's T-shirt, and chunky sneakers like I play for the NBA. I was a girl who looked like a boy trying to look like a girl in boy's clothes. I guess I had so much lesbian potential in such outfits that my mom advised me to wear more fitting clothes. She said I'm still young and thin, so I can afford to flaunt that youth because once I give birth to children and my body is too weak to fight gravity, I will not have that opportunity anymore. I bet she regretted giving me that advise because c.2000 ATA (After Tits & Ass), all I ever heard out of her mouth were
Inappropriate.
Cover up.
Are you seriously wearing that?
Go back up and change.
You're not leaving the house in that
I didn't raise you to look like a whore.

I made the last one up but I bet she thought it.

Mothers, always telling their daughters not to date until they are done with school. Focus on your studies, don't get distracted by boys. But of course, raging hormones vs. mother's wrath. There's no need to pick a winner here. So why do you think daughters end up sneaking around behind their mothers back? To avoid being yelled at and nagged at. Plus, we love the drama that comes with it. They instilled so much fear when it comes to dating during your teens, that you find it insanely annoying when you're 25 and she's bugging you to find a boyfriend to get married. Listen, if your grandmaternal clock is ticking, take the fucking batteries out. You didn't see me up in your face when you threw menopausal tantrums.

That being said, that doesn't mean mothers don't give good advice. My legs and armpits are free from natural fur.

We, The Confused Creatures.

I use the term "I want it, but I don't want it" quite heavily and every time I use it, I receive stares. Stares that say "What the hell's your point?!" But really, it's not like you've never experienced it before. It's a sort of confusing and indescribable emotion. Like your period. You don't want it because it is inconvenient in so many ways, but when you're late, you behave like someone died.

You know how malls have these model agency kiosks that are supposedly looking for potential talent? We know for a fact that these scouts are nothing but scavengers. They make you sign up but you have to pay in order to get gigs or 'training' to be more model-esque to raise your chances to get picked for gigs. Here's the thing. I know what their deal is, and I try to avoid eye contact when I'm within the vicinity. But when they don't approach me, I'm thinking "This is fucking insulting! Why? Are you calling me ugly? Who do you think you are? Am I not good enough for your pathetic establishment? What?!"

Then you walk into a designer store, where the left shoe is $350 and the right shoe is another $350, and skins of dead Italian cows cost $1500. I'm not hating on designer labels, I'm just bitchy because I can't afford. So I walk into these stores to smell expensive, touch luxury and look at what my life is missing out on. (Is it just me or do you find closed glass entrance doors intimidating?) So, I walk in with the intention to window shop and when the sales person comes up to assist me, I feel the pressure, the guilt and the poverty. I pray they don't come up to me and ask "What are you looking for?" Because I don't like questions I have no answers to. So, I avoid eye contact... again. But then, when there's no one in the shop and 5 salespersons decide that rearranging bags and folding scarves are more interesting than assisting me, I begin to think "What the fuck is the meaning of all this? Why? Are you calling me poor? Who do you think you are? Am I not good enough for your pretentious establishment? What?!" 

It's the weekend and you go to a bar with your girl friends. You see a hot guy. He's with his bunch of friends. Some hey hey and some nay nay. They notice a group of girls and decide to be friendly. So, they ask if they can join you and your friends. So you notice the hottest guy and it doesn't take long before you realize he's a smooth talker - your regular player. You're done dating men like that. You've sworn them off. You've had your fair share of heartbreaks. You're disgusted by their lack of respect for women. So, you talk to his friends and do what you do best - avoid eye contact. Then you realize he's talking, joking and laughing with all your friends BUT you. You start to think "That gay motherfucker! Why? Are you calling me unattractive? Who do you think you are? You manwhore, you!"

  

However, if he did try to make his move on you, you'd be thinking "What an asshole! Why? Are you calling me easy? What do you think I am? You manwhore you!"

So what do I have to say about all this? I guess I kinda know but I don't really know either.