A journey meant for your anxiety

There is evil in me. I know this to be true for a lot of reasons, not the least of which is the giant, shining, plague-filled zit that has grown on my cheek.

It’s taken residence just close enough to the bottom of my eye that I see it every time I glance down, a swollen reminder of two things: one, that the baby jesus obviously hates me and two, that my birthday is fast approaching.

Involuntary impulses have me checking my reflection every 20 minutes or so, as if I will somehow catch the thing diminishing in size. It only seems to get redder and larger and more like a panic button on a nuclear warhead though, forcing me to consider alternative fashion accessories like paper bags and potato sacks.

It is fortunate that my driver’s license still has a year to go before requiring renewal, as I am still living with the picture that was taken right before my 30th birthday when I was, oddly, waging battle with a similar zit. 

I remember the DMV guy eying it when I confirmed my age; he was likely comparing me to his 17 year-old complexion-challenged daughter and wondering whether I was trying to pull a fast one in order to score beer.I find it slightly disturbing that this mark of the devil has blighted my skin again. Could there be such a thing as a birthday zit? It certainly has a repulsive sort of symbolism to it.

Maybe there is some mystic quack out there who could crack this fucker open and read the goo like tea leaves or entrails. Because I’d prefer to think that having this thing would offer me some other benefit than scaring young children from my path. If my zit can be an oracle of wisdom, so be it.

Still, considering the radius of facial territory it has usurped, I’m guessing my birthday zit would only confirm that I am indeed loaded with snark. My guy would likely agree, but he’s just mad because I threatened to kill his nonexistent ferret. 

I come from a family of hunters and mink coat wearers; what else am I supposed to think when I see a pile of furry vermin? Admittedly, the ferrets were in Petco, and not the wild, which may be why my guy was charmed by them.

They were cute enough, I suppose, but not so much that I wanted to take one home with us. We have enough to contend with between my own shedding and the random balls of fur our cat yaks up; a ferret would disturb our happy little ecosystem. 

“C’mon! What would you do if I came home one day with little Taco around my neck?” my guy asked.

(Oh yes, he’s even named his imaginary pet.) 

“I’d turn him into a cover for your favorite golf club,” I replied. If I felt a tingle in my cheek when I said that, I didn’t notice. I was too busy crafting a mental list of Ways to Use a Dead Ferret. By the time I’d hit number 47, I’m sure I secured not only this stupid zit, but a toasty room in hell, too.

Not that it stopped me from giggling, of course.

Who knows, maybe my body really did create the birthday zit as part of some pagan snark cleansing ritual. It’s also possible it’s punishment for all my evil doings of late. Or perhaps I just ate too much cheese last week.

Whatever the case, I’d really rather not start my new birthday year looking like a cautionary tale, so I hereby extend my apologies to all those I may have offended recently: Davy Jones… the baby jesus… and even little Taco the Ferret. Cut a chick some slack already, would ya? 

Random side note: My guy’s band recently open for Skid Row, and there is a 15 year-old me somewhere smacking the crap out of myself now for ducking out before Skid Row took the stage. (Sorry guys, but I lost interest right around the time you released an EP of cover songs.) Still, it was a fun night, and I always love to see my guy playing to a packed room.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *