I heart me not

This is what a 29 year old looks like. I will be 30 in 11 days.
I thought I’d be mature and post a photo of myself that doesn’t primarily feature my cat.
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My worry lines tend to congregate on my chin; I also have an underbite. I had to explain what this was to several lucky girls this past weekend, who had had braces growing up: lovely Chiclet teeth.
Yet, some people think underbites are cool. It remains to be seen whether their opinions are legitimate.
I have been keeping my mouth open for several years now so I don’t wrinkle my chin, a look that is “not attractive,” I was told by an exboyfriend in 2006 during an unpleasant viewing of The Ring. To say the least, I really regret watching that movie.
So me being me is allowing myself to close my mouth as I lay around the house.
****
My vision is off the charts blind, like 20/400, according to my optician. So they have to order my contacts from some other place. The assistant is this funky chick who suggested I try, in the interim, the colored contacts they have on file that somewhat matched my prescription but weren’t Toric lenses, i.e. astigmatic lenses. She said, “I had to have em in every cullah.” Her life seemed fun and carefree.
I thought I’d try them, as they are about $150 less per eye. Plus, I needed a new personality. The color was suitably jarring—a sort of gritty mustard yellow, incidentally called “Honey.”
But I liked the honey factor: two sludgy sugar dots that shape the normally jumpy, tweaking brown-blackness. As I become that sort of New York unconscious that allows one to abandon dignity for raw survivalism, I find myself no longer willing or able to hide the consuming states that increasingly occupy what previously had been a present pair of eyes. I reckon subway passengers no longer can read my mind. I remembered my 9th grade best friend told me I should never commit a crime because everyone would be able to see on my face immediately that I had done it.
As I wore them, I began to dream that what people looked into was not my soul, but a color field that would transport them to other places besides myself. It would be a risky lie that nobody would believe, but people will accept anything if it is done with balls, and if it is colorful.
I decided eventually to opt for a less alarming Hazel to replace the Honey. Hazel is a real eye color and therefore I am now more real, gliding towards a better sort of lie.

This is what a 29 year old looks like. I will be 30 in 11 days.

I thought I’d be mature and post a photo of myself that doesn’t primarily feature my cat.

****

My worry lines tend to congregate on my chin; I also have an underbite. I had to explain what this was to several lucky girls this past weekend, who had had braces growing up: lovely Chiclet teeth.

Yet, some people think underbites are cool. It remains to be seen whether their opinions are legitimate.

I have been keeping my mouth open for several years now so I don’t wrinkle my chin, a look that is “not attractive,” I was told by an exboyfriend in 2006 during an unpleasant viewing of The Ring. To say the least, I really regret watching that movie.

So me being me is allowing myself to close my mouth as I lay around the house.

****

My vision is off the charts blind, like 20/400, according to my optician. So they have to order my contacts from some other place. The assistant is this funky chick who suggested I try, in the interim, the colored contacts they have on file that somewhat matched my prescription but weren’t Toric lenses, i.e. astigmatic lenses. She said, “I had to have em in every cullah.” Her life seemed fun and carefree.

I thought I’d try them, as they are about $150 less per eye. Plus, I needed a new personality. The color was suitably jarring—a sort of gritty mustard yellow, incidentally called “Honey.”

But I liked the honey factor: two sludgy sugar dots that shape the normally jumpy, tweaking brown-blackness. As I become that sort of New York unconscious that allows one to abandon dignity for raw survivalism, I find myself no longer willing or able to hide the consuming states that increasingly occupy what previously had been a present pair of eyes. I reckon subway passengers no longer can read my mind. I remembered my 9th grade best friend told me I should never commit a crime because everyone would be able to see on my face immediately that I had done it.

As I wore them, I began to dream that what people looked into was not my soul, but a color field that would transport them to other places besides myself. It would be a risky lie that nobody would believe, but people will accept anything if it is done with balls, and if it is colorful.

I decided eventually to opt for a less alarming Hazel to replace the Honey. Hazel is a real eye color and therefore I am now more real, gliding towards a better sort of lie.