Face! Stop breaking out! Please!
Seriously, face, I'm begging you. I've been so good to you, too! I wash you every day, I take care to remove all traces of dirt, oil, and soapy residue, but not to dry you out! I keep sharp objects away from you! I shave you with great care (sometimes -- I'll admit I've been a bit lax in that area, but that seems to be the way you like it, lately), and I even moisturize you with non-comedogenic lotions during the winter months when you are prone to excessive dryness and occasional (ick) peeling! So why, oh WHY, are you doing this to me!
I have a date! Tomorrow! An important date! An important Valentine's Day date, and you're breaking out on me! I'm being good! I'm washing you, I'm drinking plenty of water, I'm not picking at you or touching you with oily fingers, so what's the deal here? Why are you trying to sabotage me?!?!
No, never mind, baby! I take it all back! Please forgive me -- I didn't mean to yell at you like that. I love you, baby, I really do, I just get frustrated sometimes. Look, I promise that tonight? After my run? I'll scrub you down with some of your favorite Neutrogena Deep Clean Cream Cleanser, Okay? All right, all right, I know it isn't really your favorite, but the store was all out of your actual favorite, and I had to improvise. But it still works, right? Or maybe it doesn't. Is that what this is all about, face? Because I promise that as soon as this stuff is gone, I'll go back to the old stuff, even if I have to go to five different stores to find it. Just please don't let me down now. I need you, baby. I need you.
And now that we've concluded with the Psychotic Break portion of today's broadcast, let me talk a little more about hating my job. I realize that horse is long since dead, and the flogging really isn't effective any more, but it makes me feel better.
For real now, guys. I'm so sick of this "Shared Bathroom" bullshit. Yesterday I had to go, right? So I put on my wet suit, grabbed my hip-waders and life jacket, and slogged out to the little boys' room. I felt like one of those poor saps from the Mississippi flood plane who are always shown on the news, wading helplessly, armpit-deep, through the swirling, muddy waters of the mighty Mississipp' as it slowly drags a Jeep Grand Cherokee downstream in the background.
So I finally make it to the bathroom, and I walk in to find this old, old man, standing in the middle of the chipped tile floor, giving me this doofy smile and peering at me with rheumy eyes through a pair of Coke-bottle glasses. With his pants hanging wiiiiiiide open. Yes, ladies and gentleman, I saw...no. No, I can't talk about it. Let's just say I'll never be aroused again. Ever.
Which I guess makes my romance-driven issues with my face pretty much moot, huh?
Oh, and also? This Survivor: Amazon thing? Bullshit. "Ultimate battle of the sexes" my sweet ass. Dude, they have the "ultimate battle of the sexes" every three or four months now, don't they? It stops meaning anything after the first few decades, I think. Also? As soon as you stop fostering distrust and enmity between the only two genders this earth knows, maybe I'll fucking tune in. I mean, c'mon. All this talk about equality and unity and blah blah blah doesn't mean shit anymore when you turn it into an "anything you can do, I can do better" corporatized contest. Fuck you, Survivor, and fuck every half-witted man and woman that agreed to go along with this futile exercise in outdated sexual politics. In my opinion, the "winners" are the men and women who decided they didn't need to get diphtheria and yellow fever or eat a wriggling larva the size of a casaba melon in order to prove how "tough" they are.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to drive up to the coffee shop to use the private bathroom, and then pick up some Bior� Clear Pore Strips.
You want tough? Take a 24 year-old guy who's not afraid to be seen purchasing skin care products.