Recently I found myself in a conversation with my boyfriend regarding some of My Issues. Apparently I have a tendency towards more than just John Cusack-esque self deprecatory witticisms. No, I have a tendency towards full on bad-poetry-by-black-candles type self abasement. Who knew. So the boyfriend asserts that this is not in fact hard to comprehend, because each instance of said abasement can be traced back to- oh come on sing it with me you know the words- my mother.
Yes we understand, Mr Freud, siddown. In fact, as it turns out, I can indeed recall such sterling gems as "oh my gawd don't brush your hair back your forehead is showing it looks ridiculous" and "holycrap do you have big saddlebags" and of course who could forget the iconic "what are you wearing?" I've recently been made aware that this is not in fact the way all parents speak to their pre-adolescent offspring. This is fascinating information. Further, it has been revealed that when you do talk to your pre-adolescent of choice like that, it can, and stay with me here I know this is a complex equation, affect them. It seems that when you're constantly ragged about your appearance as a youngster you tend to integrate that kind of thinking as an adult. Again, who knew. Certainly not myself, a trained psychiatric specialist. No really, it never occurred to me to connect these two facts. It just goes to show you. What it shows you or where it goes I am not entirely certain and I hate that saying but there you have it. I'm guessing it goes to therapy.
In any case. Herein I have compiled a completely non-exhaustive list of things I was gifted with at birth and would love to return rather than regift to anyone else. I figure, I'd better start liking some of this stuff in order to better recognize the hot melted butter that I apparently am according to the two experts I live with and regularly get to sleep nekkid next to:
A huge shnozz, like whoa. Also it's been broken twice so it meanders. Check the silhouette before it wrecks you.
A hairline almost as high as Garfunkel's. When I'm sweaty you can check your makeup.
Lumpy thighs. Which taper so fast on the way to Ankletown that when I look down at my legs when I'm sitting at my desk it looks like an M typed in Comic Sans.
An appendix scar that has puckered to the point of being able to hide things in there. I could fool drug dogs.
I have muscular forearms, but once again, the taper in my upper arms is so extreme I bork BP cuffs.
I have feet that are about as wide as they are long and they don't make shoes shaped like squares.
I have no torso or neck. These are facts.
Ever since my sweaterpuppy redux surgery my shirtfruit are strangely pyramid shaped. I think my black cat Isis feels at home sleeping on my chest as it recalls her to her native land where she was properly worshiped.
I think that's all that comes to mind plus I should probably like, work to help underserved people achieve mental wellness or something.
