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I am well near perfect. That’s a fact, just like it’s true that I have black hair. The only difference is that I don’t talk too much about my black hair. Half of the population has black hair. There’s nothing special about it. It’s pretty obvious what colour my hair is, so I shouldn’t really have to mention it. I guess my perfection is loud and clear too, so I’ll try not to say anything about it again.
Okay, okay, I’m not perfect. I have this allergy problem, so I can’t really breathe properly and my skin is eternally itchy. My ears, although they are very cute, are different sizes.
My beauty is unparalleled
I will admit that at one time Toad the Wet Sprocket was my favourite band. I just felt so connected to their meaningful lyrics. So much so that when my friend Rocky’s father suddenly died, I decided that I could heal Rocky’s grief by sharing with him the depths of Toad the Wet Sprocket’s music. I wrote out some lyrics on a piece of paper in my beautiful cursive writing, which was perfect, even back then, put it in an envelope, skateboarded to Rocky’s house, and stuck the envelope under the windshield wiper of his tomato red I-ROC. It was a horrible thing to do. Maybe not as horrible as the time when I poked my friend Mike in the cheek with my index finger because he looked a little green. We were 13, and I was trying to change the colour of his complexion. I said, “What’s the matter? Are you dying?” He died a few months later from the big C. That stands for Cancer, not me.
Cancer killed one of my good mother’s two sisters some years ago. I remember it, but when my good old woman said that her sister was coming here for Christmas, I said, “Which one?” How about the time when a 31-year-old gentleman told me that his father died when he was 17. The first and only thing I said was, “That was a long time ago.” THAT WAS A LONG TIME AGO. What the FUCK.
So I have this indent on the right side of my forehead. It’s from punching myself in the head. It’s an ancient method that I created a few days ago. The goal is to disturb the words in my mind, shake them around like dice so that they might fall in the right order. That’s my only other physical defect, that self-inflicted dent. Otherwise, my beauty is UNPARALLELED. And all that stuff I said about dead people, THAT WAS A LONG TIME AGO. It’ll never happen again. I only decided to share it with you, so you could treat me like a normal person. I was trying to relate to YOU. Don’t be fooled by outward perfection. I’m just like you. (Except I’m way better looking. Oh, and what the fuck, 10 times smarter.) •